The Semi-Sweet Hereafter

by Colette London

  “Hey! What do you mean, I wasn’t ‘supposed to’?”

  All right. Maybe it was about that. A little bit.

  Danny stepped onto the escalator with me right behind him. “You’re a chocolate expert. You’re a great chocolate expert.”

  “But I’m not a detective. Is that it?”

  He was silent as we ascended. Then, “Those other times were flukes.” His voice was gentle but firm. “Travis thinks so too.”

  “You agree with Travis about this?” That was . . . disturbing. The two men in my life almost never agreed about anything. “You talked with Travis about this? When? What else don’t I know?”

  I didn’t like thinking that they collaborated about me. If two people as different as Danny and Travis were in cahoots . . .

  “We talk when necessary.” Danny turned to make sure I made it safely off at the top of the escalator. “We talk about you.”

  “Oh yeah?” I turned the opposite direction. “Well, talk about me heading to the police station alone, then. I’m going.”

  Danny sighed, then trotted after me. “Hold up. You’re emotional right now. You’re not thinking straight. Just let me—”

  I shoved away his comforting hand. The din of the station continued around us, now that we’d reached the ticket hall.

  A woman with a little girl cast us a curious look.

  “Let you do what, Danny? Huh?” I waved my arm with dismay. “Tell me that I shouldn’t be doing this because I’m not an expert at it? That I just almost got killed for nothing?”

  His eyes wised up. “You do think you were pushed.”

  “Of course I think I was pushed!” I hadn’t wanted to admit it before, but now I was angry. Angry at whoever had gone after me. Angry at myself for being vulnerable. Angry at Danny for pointing out the truth. Despite my efforts, I was out of my depth when it came to this. “That can’t have been a coincidence. Someone doesn’t want me looking into Jeremy’s murder.”

  “But you’re not going to quit,” Danny surmised.

  This time, it was my turn to toss him a long, knowing look. I have to say, it felt strangely satisfying. No wonder he pulled that maneuver with me so often.

  “I’m going to be more careful,” I acknowledged. As I’d told Phoebe, I wasn’t an idiot. “But no, I’m not going to quit.”

  “What if Nicola really did do it?” he asked, reasonably enough. “There probably aren’t two murderers to track down.”

  I squared my shoulders. “Then I guess I’ll be done with the investigation. This time.” I still hoped there wouldn’t be a next time. “Let’s find out what Nicola had to say to the police. Both of us. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Danny said. Then we went to find out if my sleuthing was over . . . or had just gotten a lot more complicated.

  Fifteen

  Complicated won.

  Danny and I made it to the police station just in time to catch a commotion in front of the building. Almost immediately, it became obvious that Nicola’s supposed “confession” wasn’t what it had appeared to be—most obviously because she was free.

  Wearing an unassuming yellow dress that beautifully accented her porcelain skin, blue eyes, and long auburn braid, Jeremy’s former assistant stood amid a mob of media types. Some took photographs; others filmed or recorded Nicola as she spoke.

  She definitely had not been arrested for murder.

  “You can be sure this travesty of justice will appear in my book,” she was saying, scanning the crowd with tear-filled eyes. “This is only the latest of several indignities I’ve had to suffer because of Jeremy Wright. The world should know the truth!”

  Amid the babble of shouted questions that came next from the assembled journalists, I looked askance at Danny. His mistrust of the situation was plain on his beard-shadowed face.

  We edged closer, me still in my workout clothes and Danny in his jeans, white shirt, and overall pugnacious attitude.

  “Nicola! Nicola! The Independent here,” someone yelled.

  Graciously, she acknowledged that reporter with raised brows. I was amazed how poised Nicola had become since our last meeting. Then she’d blurted out statements erratically, with none of the self-control she exhibited now, in a more demanding situation. Had Nicola been using me for media practice, as she’d semi-jokingly claimed? Or had she been fooling me all along?

  It was hard to know who the real Nicola Mitchell was. Mousy or outspoken? Awkward or composed? Ill-treated or murderous?

  “We know now that Jeremy mistreated you terribly,” the reporter said. “Do you believe that justice has prevailed?”

  The reporter meant, I deduced, that Jeremy’s murder could have been a sort of justice for her, his “tormented” assistant.

  To her credit, Nicola recognized a trap when she saw one. “I believe justice will prevail, once DC Mishra and the London Metropolitan Police Service have finished their work.”

  Tardily, I glimpsed Satya Mishra standing to Nicola’s left. On her right, Claire Evans typed on her cell phone. As though sensing my attention, Nicola’s agent glanced up. She saw me.

  She nodded, then somberly resumed listening to her client.

  After a few more questions, Nicola seemed to sway. Claire handed her a tissue for her teary eyes. Nicola dabbed at them.

  She did so, I saw, much more prettily than I had earlier, when I’d almost been flattened by an Underground train.

  “I’m afraid that’s . . . all I can answer for right now. I’m sorry,” Nicola said in a broken voice. “Thank you all so much for listening to me. For being there for me. For helping me set the record straight about Jeremy. His death was tragic, but his life was . . . monstrous.” She shuddered theatrically. “Soon, you’ll all understand that, just as intimately as you possibly can.”

  As a teaser of her forthcoming book, that statement naturally incited a new frenzy of questions. But doe-eyed Nicola could only turn frailly to Claire. Her agent expertly put Nicola in the hands of the detective constable. DC Mishra ushered Nicola back into the station. Claire cleared away all the media, good-naturedly sharing good-byes with reporters as she did.

  I gaped at the measure of influence she had on them. It was obvious that Claire had experience handling the press. I wondered how many times she’d used those skills on Jeremy’s behalf—and how many times, perhaps purposely, she hadn’t.

  Surely, if Claire was on such good terms with the media, she could have prevented some of those damaging stories from surfacing—about Jeremy’s weight, his bald spot, his wrinkles.

  Unware of my speculation, Jeremy’s former agent lit a cigarette. She took a long, obviously satisfying drag, then exhaled a plume of smoke into the cloudy (again) afternoon.

  The exodus of the press left Danny and me exposed. Claire noticed and strode over in her immaculate gray business suit.

  I was about to greet her when she embraced Danny. Cooing with pleasure, she gave him double air-kisses on each cheek.

  “Danny! Fancy seeing you here. Ready to go again tomorrow?”

  I gawked. I’d been unaware they’d known one another. It hadn’t been me Claire had nodded at earlier. It had been Danny.

  “Believe me,” he said, “I’ll go as long as you need me to.”

  At his unmistakably promising tone, my stupefaction doubled. A glance at Danny clarified nothing—and I didn’t have time to be subtle—so I stuck out my hand to Jeremy’s agent.

  “Hi, Claire.” I nodded at my musclebound security expert. “That sounded mysterious. What’s going on between you two?”

  They both clammed up. I swear it.

  Were Danny and Claire . . . an item? I knew he was open-minded and she was interested in sex, but I just didn’t believe either of them would take things that far.

  “You’ll find out!” Claire trilled teasingly. “Eventually.”

  Danny shifted, looking as uncomfortable as I’d seen him.

  I watched them both. “I think I’m finding out now.”

  It wa
s hard not to stare openmouthed. Claire had to be twenty-five years Danny’s senior, if not thirty. What could they possibly have in common, except (as Nicola would have said) S.E.X.? How had that happened? And why was Danny always getting lucky while I was globe-trotting from place to place, fixing up chocolate indulgences and trying my hardest to solve murders?

  Claire smiled at me. “You’re so funny, Hayden. I’m so looking forward to representing your exposé.” She dragged on her cigarette. “With your voice, it’s bound to be a terrific hit.”

  Oh yeah. My supposed potboiler about the chocolate biz. I’d forgotten all about it. “I’m still looking into my options.”

  “Of course you are. Of course. Don’t delay too long, though!” Claire leaned forward in confidence, then waved her cigarette toward the front of the police station where Nicola had held the media captivated. “You see what I can do, obviously.”

  “Nicola’s arrest?” I played dumb, but I had my suspicions about what had taken place today. “Or her press conference?”

  The agent puffed on her cigarette. “Someone tipped the police that Nicola had killed Jeremy. Can you imagine that?”

  I nodded. “It’s fortunate she was ready to come down to the station and clear up the misunderstanding—fortunate that the media responded so quickly. That was quite a speech she gave.”

  Claire looked pleased. “Yes, Nicola did a fine job, didn’t she? The story will be in all the papers tomorrow, and on all the morning television news shows, too. Almost everyone needs media coaching, but Nicola is an exception. She came to me with a very clear vision of what she could do. I do wish her book about poor Jeremy wasn’t necessary, you know, but since it is . . .”

  Adroitly, Jeremy’s former agent let that statement trail away. I’d misjudged Claire, I realized, and her willingness to profit from Jeremy’s death. She was smart. And ruthless.

  “Anyway, must dash.” Claire dropped her smoldering cigarette, then crushed it beneath the sole of one of her slingbacks. “Kisses, Danny!” she cooed. “Bye, Hayden!”

  After her lovey-dovey farewell, I turned to my bodyguard and crossed my arms. “I can’t wait to hear you explain this.”

  His outrageously oblivious expression didn’t fool me.

  “I’m keeping an eye on things,” he said. “Like you wanted.”

  Mmm-hmm. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  He caught on. “You must have bumped your head when you fell on the platform,” Danny deadpanned. “You’re imagining things.”

  I didn’t think so. “Do you have to have every woman who throws herself at you?” That was the way I envisioned the scenario, at least. “You could be a little more discriminating.”

  He laughed. “You could be a little less uptight.”

  “What, me?” I nearly howled with disbelief. “Nope. Nice try. This is about you.” I studied him. “Maybe I’ll ask Travis.”

  Danny looked amused. “What makes you think he’d know anything about me?” Short of my tax return, his grin added.

  I dug out my phone. “You two are pals now, remember?”

  I was on the verge of dialing when I spied my broken screen. Also, Danny chose that moment to cover my hand with his.

  “I’m not indiscriminate. I’m not sleeping with Mrs. Robinson, either.” Except he used a much blunter term than that. “All this stuff going on, and you’re worried about my sex life?”

  “It doesn’t matter to me who you sleep with.” I yanked away my hand and squinted at my damaged phone. “You’re your own man. I pay you to protect me, not to—” Sleep with me? Argh, where was I going with this? I jerked up my head. “Just watch yourself.”

  “You watch yourself.”

  “Be sure to use protection. Don’t break any hearts.”

  He gave a dazzling smile. “I wouldn’t know how.”

  That’s what he thought. That was the thing about Danny, though. That was what saved him from being insufferable. He truly didn’t understand how appealing he could be. How desirable. There were compelling reasons women wanted him.

  “How to use protection, I mean. What’s that mean?” His eyes sparkled as he joked with me. “I break hearts constantly.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “I need to talk to DC Mishra.”

  “But I’m really interested in discussing my love life now,” Danny said with elaborate artlessness. “How will I know when a woman is ‘the one’? How many ‘ones’ can one man have? Help a guy out, Hayden. You seem to have opinions you want to share.”

  I raised my palm in surrender. “Forget I mentioned it.”

  His laughter rang out, startling two police officers who’d just left the station. “Yeah,” Danny said, “I thought so.”

  I harrumphed and turned away. “I’m going in. You coming?”

  My sometime bodyguard gave the police station a guarded look. Given his past, Danny and the authorities don’t get along.

  “Yeah, okay.” He set his chin stubbornly. For me. “Okay.”

  I commiserated. “You said ‘okay’ twice.”

  “That’s how much I mean it.”

  “It’s all right.” I touched the back of his injured hand. “Why don’t you go have your palm looked at while I’m in there?”

  “Why don’t I go to the corner pub and have a pint?”

  “Because that won’t fix up your injury. You know, the one you got because you were saving my life?” Suddenly feeling overcome with gratitude, I flung my arms around him. I sniffled so I wouldn’t cry again. “Thanks, Danny. I owe you one.”

  His arms encircled me. “You owe me dozens. You just don’t know it,” he assured me as he stepped away. His head was down, so I couldn’t see his face. “You never see me, remember?”

  He might have a point. For all I knew, Danny had been trailing behind me for years, taking out bad guys and making sure I didn’t wander off cliffs. For all I knew, he might be habitually late because he was always busy looking out for me.

  I knew he was loyal. And skilled. I also knew he never wanted to talk about the things he did for me. That was his way.

  “Go have a pint and celebrate, then.” I aimed my chin at the nearest pub, a lively place on the corner. “I’ll be there soon.” I gave him a serious look. “Then we’ll fix your hand.”

  My longtime friend gave me a mocking salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Two minutes later, I was inside the station. I headed straight for the reception desk—then stopped short in surprise.

  I recognized the officer on duty. “George! How are you?”

  I thought you’d been suspended pending a misconduct investigation whirled through my mind. I opted not to say it.

  “Well, if it isn’t Ms. Hayden Mundy Moore.” George gave me a jovial look. He seemed none the worse for wear after his suspension. “Have you come to see DC Mishra? I’ll fetch her for you.”

  “No! No, thanks.” I smoothed over my protest with a smile. “Actually, I’m here to report an assault.” I couldn’t get over his presence there. I guessed he’d been absolved of suspicion.

  I wished I could say the same thing about my own suspects in Jeremy’s murder. Even if Nicola really had confessed to killing her boss today, plenty of people still looked guilty.

  “An assault? Oh no. That’s a shame, isn’t it?” With a cheerfulness that belied his words, George took out some forms. “Now, who was attacked?” he asked concernedly. “And where?”

  I assumed he thought I’d witnessed a crime. But that wasn’t the case at all. “I was,” I told him. “On the Underground.”

  “You don’t say?” George quit writing. “Well, that’s another story altogether, isn’t it? You’re a principal suspect!”

  Before I could object, he went to collect DC Mishra. I hoped I hadn’t inadvertently made myself appear even guiltier somehow. I really liked that four-poster bed at the guesthouse. I didn’t want to spend the night in a London jail instead.

  * * *

  “. . . but this
is the real deal, innit?” The gray-haired publican at The Fat Squirrel flipped his pub towel over his shoulder. He nodded at me and Danny. “Not like them corporate pubs you see sproutin’ up all over the place nowadays.” He frowned. “No, this place has been here since Tudor times.”

  It looked it too—all dark polished oak, creaky floors, and well-used taps on the kegs of lager, ale, and hearty stout.

  I nodded, happy to listen to him boast. I’d had an arduous meeting with Satya Mishra, during which she’d done everything from accuse me of wasting police resources to faking a crime to wanting “as much attention as poor Nicola Mitchell got today.”

  Suffice it to say, the detective constable hadn’t been a sympathetic listener—probably because she’d just been duped by whoever had phoned in that bogus “tip” involving Nicola.

  I would have been short-tempered too.

  But now it was happy hour, and all the pubs were filling up. Danny and I were two of the few customers who’d opted to sit inside with our lagers, rather than stand outside and revel in the good weather. Since I hadn’t been able to persuade Danny to do more than wash his abraded hand . . . well, why not linger and enjoy a pint? I was interested in what the pub owner had to say.

  There was nothing like a publican’s pleasantries to help pass the time. No one else did small talk quite the same way.

  “We’ve even got ourselves a smugglers’ tunnel, down in the basement,” the barman confided next with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, handily proving my theory just as I thought of it.

  I gave him what he wanted. “I don’t believe a word of it!”

  “It’s true! All owing to us being close up to the Thames. See, back in the day, almost everything came in by ship. But it was expensive to bring in cargo, on account of taxes and all that.”

  “Not much has changed there.” Danny played along, too.

  “Right. So smugglers would wait till the middle of the night, then slide right into their secret quays, down from the patrolled harbor, to unload their cargo without nobody seein’.”

  “Then they’d come in here for a drink?” I supposed.

  “Bang on!” The publican looked pleased. I had the sense he told this story to all the tourists. “They’d sneak their goods right through the tunnel, up to here, then meet their buyers.”