The Semi-Sweet Hereafter

by Colette London

  Whatever she said to him was too low to hear clearly. The most terrifying people are always the quietest, aren’t they? My own father tends to get more silent, more calm, the angrier he gets. Try explaining that to six-year-old me. You can’t do it.

  Down the passageway in her office, Phoebe reached up to touch Hugh’s head kerchief. She seemed to be indicating that he should take it off, like a supplicant come to see the queen.

  Well. That wasn’t a very nice thought, was it? Annoyed with myself for thinking that about Phoebe—and worse, for believing it might be true—I turned away. I didn’t want to see any more.

  I turned to address the others. This might not have had anything to do with chocolate explicitly, but it was my job to lead them. Myra, Poppy, and the others would have questions.

  Specifically, questions about why Hugh was already emerging from Phoebe’s office, his bandanna held in his tattooed fist.

  We all gaped as the gangly baker strode through the kitchen. He didn’t look at any of us. If he’d been sacked, it had happened in record time, remorselessly and quietly.

  “Hugh? What happened?” Myra kneaded her chef’s jacket.

  “Are you all right, Hugh?” Poppy crowded in. “Can I help?”

  The other bakers clustered around, fretful and curious.

  Hugh held up his arm but didn’t break stride. For an instant, his gaze flashed to meet mine. “See you around, yeah?”

  Then he pushed open the back door and stepped outside. I didn’t know if he’d quit, was fired, or (I couldn’t help thinking) had maybe stabbed Phoebe in her office with his knife.

  I should have checked his combat boot for its telltale shaft. Hugh had never liked kitchen clogs; he wore his boots.

  “I’d feel a right tosser in those things,” he’d said.

  Left behind in the chocolaterie-pâtisserie’s kitchen, we all looked at each other. I wasn’t sure what to do. Call DC Mishra? I didn’t want to be suspected of another murder, just because I’d been standing nearby. On the other hand, there were witnesses this time. Everyone knew I hadn’t attacked Phoebe.

  I put on a smile and hooked my thumb toward the office, not wanting to alarm the others. “I’ll just go check on Phoebe.”

  Poppy snorted. “Yeah, right. Check on her, why don’t you?”

  Myra’s mutinous gaze hit me. “Are you with us or her?”

  “Hugh’s the one who needs checking on,” someone else said.

  What could I say? I’m worried your boss might be dead wouldn’t fly. I think Hugh might have killed Jeremy? Nope.

  I was spared by Phoebe sticking her head out of her office, then high-handedly signaling to me. “Hayden, please come here.”

  I sagged with relief. Suddenly, I had everyone’s sympathy.

  “Never mind.” Morosely, Myra turned away. “Good luck.”

  “Yeah, nice knowing you,” Poppy added. “Sorry, Hayden.”

  So, haughtily summoned, I headed back to see Phoebe. I’d never been fired from a consultation before. Not ever. How would I explain this to Danny? Worse, to Travis? He’d be disconsolate.

  There was only one way to approach this. Diplomatically.

  If I got fired from my chocolate-whisperer consultation at Primrose, how would I investigate Jeremy’s murder? I knew Danny and Travis would say this was proof I shouldn’t investigate any murders (they were in unprecedented agreement on that subject), but I was already knee-deep into this one. I couldn’t stop now.

  I went in, closed the door, and faced Phoebe.

  “I think you may have misunderstood about Hugh,” I began.

  If I was going down, I intended to go down swinging.

  “Hugh? This isn’t about Hugh.” Phoebe looked briefly nonplussed, but that didn’t last long. She regrouped, clasping her hands equably atop her desk. I envied her composure. “I spoke with Andrew Davies at the service yesterday. He wanted to know where to find the memorial to Jeremy you’d put together?”

  I blanched. “Oh, that.” I laughed, buying time to think. I couldn’t tell Phoebe about my investigation, could I? No. “Mr. Davies and I met at Jeremy’s charity, and he assumed I was Jeremy’s assistant. I didn’t want to embarrass him, so . . .”

  “Ah.” Phoebe nodded, instantly understanding. The British yen to avoid embarrassment at all costs ran deep. “I see.”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t really any memorial.”

  “I know that.” Phoebe’s brittle tone stood at odds with her elegant appearance. She was, hands down, the world’s most graceful widow. For a moment, she looked wistful. “It would have been nice, though, wouldn’t it? A fine remembrance of Jeremy?”

  “I think everyone’s remembering him in their own way.”

  “Yes, well . . . they would, wouldn’t they?” My consultee looked up at me with polite smile. “You mustn’t be afraid to be tough with the staff here, Hayden. I need your leadership, now more than ever.” She paused. “I also need your tutoring. Otherwise . . .”

  You’d be fired. I didn’t doubt that’s what she meant.

  Duly warned, I nodded. “Hugh surprised me, that’s all. He really is a good worker. Smart and capable, and very helpful with the other bakers. Confectionary isn’t his forte, but he—”

  “Hugh won’t be giving you any more trouble.” Phoebe sorted through some papers on her desk, clearly finished with our conversation. Then she glanced up as though struck by another thought. “I was wondering . . . do you still have Jeremy’s phone?”

  I did. “It’s in my bag, in my locker.” At Primrose, all the staff used lockers during working hours. It was standard. “I’ll get it for you right away, as soon as we’re done here.”

  I’d gotten all the information I could cull from it anyway.

  “That would be acceptable.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t return it before. I’ve been”—busy using it to investigate your husband’s death—“absentminded lately.”

  “Haven’t we all?” Phoebe sighed. Then she sharpened. “You’ll need to pull yourself together, won’t you? It won’t do for me to have lessons from someone who isn’t up to the task.”

  Her condescending tone bothered me. I didn’t doubt that Hugh had quit the moment Phoebe had gotten all queenly with him.

  But I didn’t have the luxury of storming out of Primrose, the way Hugh had done. I had a job to do—one I took pride in doing well. Aside from that, I needed access to the people who’d been in Jeremy’s life. Otherwise, I’d never solve his murder.

  “I’m completely up to the task,” I assured her. “In fact, why don’t I show you our new range of cookies? There are triple-chocolate biscotti, Devil’s-food chocolate chip, fudgy brownie bites, cocoa shortbread, hazelnut chocolate-drop cookies with caramel centers, peanut butter–filled chocolate . . . They’ve been very popular with the chocolaterie-pâtisserie’s customers.”

  “Another time.” Phoebe gave me an indifferent wave. “I have things to do. I’ve let some tasks linger uncompleted for far too long now, haven’t I?”

  It had been less than a week since Jeremy’s death. I didn’t think that qualified as “far too long.” But all I said was, “We’re still on for our baking lesson this afternoon, then?”

  “Of course, Hayden. I’m not an idiot, am I?”

  Well . . . since Phoebe hadn’t fired me? No.

  I smiled at her. “Of course not.”

  “Then I’ll see you this afternoon,” she confirmed, going back to her documents. “We’ll make a Bakewell tart today. A chocolate version, of course. You’ll know how to do that.”

  I did. We were fine, then. But since I couldn’t leave well enough alone, I had to get the last word. Blame pride. Blame leftover adrenaline from dealing with Hugh. Or just blame the chocolate, butter, and sugar fumes wafting through Primrose. Those were decadent enough to have scrambled anyone’s senses.

  Whatever was responsible, next I heard myself say . . .

  “I’m not an idiot, either,” I told Phoebe in a
cautionary tone, wanting the respect I’d earned. I hadn’t gotten my chocolate-whisperer cred by being mediocre. I was the best in the world. The only in the world. If Phoebe wanted help, I was her best option. “You should remember that, Phoebe.”

  Then I turned without waiting for a response and sailed away . . . not nearly as graciously as Phoebe had done earlier, but it felt pretty darn satisfying to leave her gawking, all the same.

  Fourteen

  “. . . and then I said, ‘I’m not an idiot, either.’” I lowered into another squat, my thighs trembling. After only half an hour or so of working out with Liam, my muscles burned—even muscles I hadn’t been aware of having, until now. I lifted myself again. Ah. “You should have seen Phoebe’s face. She was gobsmacked.”

  “I doubt anyone ever talks to Phoebe that way.” Liam urged me down into another shaky squat. “Or ever has done, actually.”

  All around us, Londoners reveled in The Green Park on a summer afternoon. Some filled its classic, awning-striped deck chairs, enjoying the newly blue skies and meager sunshine. Others relaxed on the rolling grass or atop picnic blankets. The unluckiest ones followed the paths winding amid the tall London plane trees, scurrying from Buckingham Palace and St. James’s Park on one side of the royal park to the Tube station that lay on the other. That’s where I’d be, once I’d finished training with Jeremy—on the Underground, headed back to Chelsea.

  “Maybe Jeremy did,” I fished. I was tired, sure. But not too tired to try to wrangle useful information from him. “He was Phoebe’s husband. He didn’t have to worry about her firing him.”

  “Humph.” Liam gave me a sardonic look. “You’ve never been married, have you? My mates who have tell a different story.”

  “I’ve come close.” I grunted with effort. “Three times.”

  He grinned. “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” The trainer raised his brows. “Three times, though?”

  I nodded, then switched to performing a plank at Liam’s silent request. By now, I’d come to understand his signals.

  I didn’t like them, necessarily. But I understood them.

  “Unfortunately, I have a weakness for the same kind of man,” I explained, wishing I’d wiped my sweaty forehead before embarking on my plank. I still had almost a full minute to go. The grass prickled my palms. My knees quaked. “Tall, good-looking, homebody types—you know, guys who want to settle down.”

  Liam was squinting toward the bushes that lined the park’s fence along Piccadilly. Tardily, he realized I’d quit speaking.

  “Those kind of guys really exist?” he asked.

  I gave a rueful grin. “I’ve turned three of them into the wild myself.” Perspiration dripped from my chin. Gross. Liam’s workouts were really hard. “I wasn’t ready to settle down.”

  “Maybe you weren’t ready to settle down with them,” Liam suggested, gently touching me with his strong hands—a reminder for me to keep my back flat. “You travel all the time, right? A guy who likes to stay at home sounds like a wonky fit to me.”

  I disagreed. “But that’s what I want. Someone who’s secure. Someone who’s dependable. Someone who won’t—”

  “Gallivant off across the globe? Like you do?”

  He had me. We’d gotten friendly enough that I’d explained my traveling to him. “Okay, so I have a ‘type.’ Big deal.” I focused on my plank for a few more seconds. “I bet you do, too.”

  Liam allowed me to relax between sets. For a nanosecond.

  “Not really.” He shrugged. “I’m pretty open.”

  “No, you’re not. You just think you are. Everyone has a type. They want their partner to tick all the checkboxes.”

  Again, I caught Liam looking into the bushes. What the . . . ?

  He frowned, then shook himself. “Speak for yourself. That’s too limiting, if you ask me. You’ve got to try new things!”

  He trod to his trainer’s bag of tricks, then took out some small blocks. Recognizing them, I groaned. This was the part of our workout where Liam set up those blocks, then I sprinted from one to the other, developing quickness and stamina. Ugh.

  I wished I’d eaten more than a fruit salad with hazelnut vinaigrette, leafy greens, and crunchy cacao nibs for lunch. With a chocolate éclair from Le Pain Quotidien for dessert as a chaser, of course, because . . . well, I’d needed to power up, right?

  Why wasn’t chocolate some kind of superfood? (It’s not, despite what you may have heard. Sure, it contains antioxidant flavonoids plus beneficial phytochemicals, but that’s no excuse to pack away pounds of it—to my eternal regret.) I’d already had a lecture from Liam about not having quit my favorite treats.

  He’d known—or had accurately guessed—my transgressions.

  I didn’t think I was that transparent. Maybe I was wrong.

  “Most ‘new things’ are superficial,” I argued. “Blond instead of brunette, tall instead of short. That doesn’t count.”

  Unfazed, Liam went on setting out his blocks. “I’ll bet you a tenner that your guys all looked the same, too.”

  I laughed, ready to take that wager. Then I realized . . .

  My three ex-fiancés pretty much had looked the same. Hmm.

  There was no way I was admitting defeat. “What do you keep looking for in the bushes?” I asked instead, dabbing my brow.

  Liam’s face darkened. “Paparazzi. I hate those guys.”

  Aha. I scanned the perimeter. “Did you see someone?”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’re almost done here.”

  “Does that mean I get to skip the sprinting drill?”

  Liam laughed. “You’d be gutted if you missed that one, wouldn’t you? It’s your favorite.”

  I slumped, eyeing those blocks with well-deserved enmity.

  But that only made Liam laugh harder. “Best shape of your life, remember?” A clap. “You don’t want to miss that marathon!”

  His jolly reminder of my initial excuse for seeing him hit home. He was right. I couldn’t quit. Not because I truly wanted to sweat, ache, and stride for more than twenty miles, but because I still didn’t know why Jeremy had been killed. I had to be getting close. I just needed to make a few more connections.

  “Regular exercise is good for mental functioning,” Liam urged, leaning over in his usual coach’s stance with his hands on his musclebound thighs, ready to watch me. “Mood, too.”

  Mood? Hah. Grumpily, I considered flipping him “the vees” (a two-finger salute similar to the middle-finger gesture in the U.S.), just to prove my mood was going to be a challenging one.

  But then I realized I wasn’t mad at Liam. I was mad at myself. Mad for not having succeeded yet. Mad for dreading a dumb physical fitness drill. There were people across the park—in a group with a trainer similar to mine—doing it. Why not me?

  I dug in. “Are you still talking? Put down those blocks.”

  Liam recognized my newfound grit and smiled. “That’s the way! Don’t let anything hold you back! Push through it!”

  Or bludgeon it? I couldn’t help thinking as I prepared to run. Because no matter how likable Liam was, there was still a big question mark hanging over my trainer’s head. He could have killed Jeremy. He could have been cunning enough to hide it from everyone. He could be playing me right now. How would I know?

  I wouldn’t. But I still vowed to keep searching.

  Beside me, Liam blew his whistle. “Go go go!”

  Okay. Head down, I ran straight toward the blocks at top speed (for me, at least). If any of the tabloid press snapped photos today, they’d capture a very sticky and winded (but very accomplished) Hayden Mundy Moore in their telephoto lenses.

  * * *

  Our workout session had ended when I finally spotted them: members of the tabloid press, crowded at one side of the ornate wrought-iron and gilt-painted fence protecting the queen’s park. Some had cameras. Others had phones. A few even had notebooks.

  It should have been illegal to prey on Lia
m so mercilessly, especially when all he wanted to do was earn a living—something that (for him) necessarily happened outdoors. Our sessions weren’t free; I wanted to help Liam, now that Jeremy was no longer in the picture. Britain’s sexiest chef might as well have been there, though, for all the interest Liam and I merited.

  After we said our good-byes, I scoured the press with a shaming glare, then slung on my bag and headed toward Green Park station. Fortunately for me, the park fence would keep the reporters at bay long enough for me to make my way safely underground. Not that I was of particular interest, but it was hard to guess what a bunch of opportunistic tabloid journalists might do. It wasn’t as if they had to tell the truth.

  Liam had headed in the opposite direction, toward Hyde Park Corner. At least we had divide-and-conquer on our side.

  Feeling optimistic, I delved into the station. Even in the middle of the day, its central ticket hall swarmed with people, from clumps of bewildered tourists to Transport for London employees to fast-walking Londoners and buskers on their way into the tunnels to their official performing positions.

  All the amenities in the station didn’t ameliorate the crowding, either. There were ticket machines and wall maps, a dry cleaner and a kiosk selling candy and newspapers, a small branch of Marks & Spencer, plus multiple entrances and exits. I pushed through the crowd, headed for the row of ticket barriers.

  That’s when I saw them. The same tabloid press members.

  They swarmed down the street-side entrances, opposite from the park-side entrance I’d used, moving in a chattering crowd. It was evident that something had happened to rouse them.

  It couldn’t be me. Could it? I seriously doubted it.

  I touched my card and dashed through the ticket barrier in my workout clothes and sneakers, feeling like the fox in one of those old-timey foxhunts—albeit one that was ponytailed and vaguely achy. In front of me, various escalators led down to the different Tube lines. In my rush, I forgot which one I needed.

  I was standing there trying to remember which way to go, being buffeted by the crowd while listening to those tabloid reporters shouting to each other behind me, when someone grabbed me. I felt myself being yanked sideways, away from the crowd.