“Are those hot new destinations or something?” I smiled. “Travis, have you been looking into beating your travel phobia?”
He squashed that idea. “Neither Venezuela nor Costa Rica has an extradition agreement with the United Kingdom. There are other countries with the same status, of course, but looking at available flight paths, those two appear most pertinent.”
Aha. That meant that my suspect could board a plane—at Gatwick, Heathrow, Stansted, London City, Luton, or another smaller, private airport—and get away with murder. Literally.
I shook my head. “As far as I know, no one has any travel plans. Everything’s been building toward me finishing my chocolate consultation at Primrose, Phoebe filming her TV appearance, Nicola launching her book, Gemma turning Danny into the next ‘Old Spice man’-style advertising sensation, and Claire profiting wherever possible.” I threw in mentions of Andrew Davies, Liam Taylor, and Amelja, too. “Anyway, I want to be here to see justice done,” I told Travis. “I’ve worked hard for it.”
“It will be unique to see the police sweep in to save the day this time,” my financial adviser mused. “I’m glad you’re not going rogue, Hayden. I would have advised against it. Again.”
Again. In my own defense, the last couple of times I’d been involved in something criminal, the authorities had been two steps behind the culprit—too far behind for my own safety. We both knew that. But this time, I had to agree with Travis.
I envisioned him in his high-rise office building in Seattle, looking out over Puget Sound. Cradling the phone with one hand and loosening his tie with the other. Getting ready, at long last, to tell me exactly what he was wearing right now.
“Just keep your distance,” Travis said instead, his tone gravelly with concern. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Aw, Travis. I didn’t know you cared,” I joked.
There was a meaningful silence as I waited for him to laugh. Except he didn’t. I paced worriedly, frowning at the iconic British telephone box I’d chosen as my stopping point for this conversation as though I was unhappy with that crimson Art Moderne–style kiosk, its tidy panes of glass, and its gold bas-relief crown motif. Some tourists slowed, wanting a photo of it.
I stepped aside to let them. Travis cleared his throat.
“If you don’t know I care by now,” he said in a carefully casual tone, “then I’ve done a terrible job of communicating.”
Whoops. “I was only joking.” Unable to stop, I added, “I’m the one who keeps professing my undying love for you, Travis.”
More silence. Then he remembered. “That’s right. The other day, after your Tube train incident,” he recalled. “You know as well as I do things that happen during emergencies don’t count.”
It was, to a word, exactly what I’d thought when Danny and I had shared that moment down on the Underground platform, when we’d both looked at each other and felt . . . something significant.
“I do know that,” I said contritely. Crisply. I watched a few Londoners striding toward home, carrying newspapers and laptop bags and cell phones. “I’m a little on edge right now.”
It was too little, too late. I think we both knew it.
“Hey, it’s not every day you turn in a murderer,” he said.
“I hope it’s the last day I turn in a murderer.” I paced, smiling at the outlandishness of that statement. However bizarre my circumstances were, I had to deal with them. “I’ll let you know what happens. You know, unless I get killed or something.”
This time, there was no delay. “Not funny. Be careful.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Be more than careful.”
“Yes, sir.” I didn’t think Travis had caught up to my new reality yet. But I had. Or at least I was making strides in that direction. What I’d been through was unprecedented. None of us had been ready for it, including Travis. But we were adjusting.
“You’re headed to the police station next?” Travis asked.
“I think that’s for the best.” Still pacing, I wandered to the phone box again. As a piece of history, it was unmatched. As a useful public utility? Not so much. Not many people used phone booths anymore. But I hoped that bit of English heritage would stick around awhile. “I can offer proof. The police should take me seriously—even if DC Mishra has her doubts about my motives.”
“I’ll vouch for you,” my keeper said reliably.
I appreciated his loyalty, but... “I doubt even you could sway the detective constable from her opinion. She’s pretty tough.” I had to admire a woman who was making her way in what had to be a male-dominated field. All the same, maybe I’d seek out George to give my statement to. “She’s . . . tenacious.”
“Hmm.” Travis’s sexy murmur rumbled over the line. “Sounds a lot like someone else I know. She works with chocolate. She’s pretty incredible at a lot of things, actually. You know her?”
His playful tone made me quit pacing. Suddenly, I really wished I was anywhere but London, embroiled in another murder.
“I’ve got to run.” I cut short our banter. More than anything, I wanted to cling to the phone and forget about everything while listening to Travis and his sensual rumble. I would have settled for my financial adviser’s take on the ABCs, if it came down to it. But time was wasting. “It’s obvious no one is planning to confess to Jeremy’s murder anytime soon, so . . .”
Travis caught my hint. “Good luck, Hayden. I mean it.”
I swallowed hard. “I’ll give the police your number if I need someone to vouch for my good character, okay?”
“Already done.” I could practically hear him smile across the phone lines. “Why do you think you’re not already arrested?”
I laughed. “You’re smart, Trav, but you’re not omniscient.”
He laughed too. “That’s what you think. Talk to you soon.”
His sign-off was as good as a vote of confidence. If my financial adviser had doubted my ability to get this done, he would have kept me on the line, trying to talk me into another course of action. Going to the police was the (only) smart move.
I shot Danny a text message, then headed over there.
It wasn’t until I was safely on the Tube train, recalling my conversation with my keeper, that I remembered what I’d said.
Trav. I’d called him Trav. More significantly, he’d let me.
Next time, I promised myself, I was asking about his dog.
* * *
I’ll spare you the details of my appointment with George.
He, as predicted, was a lot more amenable to hearing my theory than DC Mishra would have been, though. Which wasn’t to say that Satya Mishra didn’t wander by and shoot me one of her typically hostile looks (she did), but she seemed about as eager to engage with me as I’d expected (meaning, not at all eager).
I’m pretty outgoing. Ordinarily, I make friends easily, which is helpful in my line of work. I don’t usually run into people to whom I can’t relate (at all), but the detective constable was one of the few and the proud. She did not like me.
Since I half suspected DC Mishra was still hoping to find a reason to arrest me, I have to say the feeling was mutual.
I skedaddled out of the station as soon as possible, then spent the evening in a state of anticipation. Everything would be ending very soon now. I had the assurance of the London Metropolitan Police Service on that. Still, I felt trapped.
I couldn’t leave, for the reasons I’d told Travis: I didn’t want to spook Jeremy’s murderer. I couldn’t just behave as though everything was A-OK, either, though. I do not have much of a poker face, just FYI. In the end, I sequestered myself in the guesthouse and baked chocolate chip cookies.
That’s right. When the pressure is on, your gridskipping chocolate whisperer gets out the flour, butter, sugar, and chocolate (natch) and goes to town. By the time midnight rolled around, I was pulling another batch of my personal king of cookies from the deluxe (but not too deluxe) oven. The scents of me
lted chocolate and caramelized sugar filled the kitchen.
I waved my oven mitt, fanning those aromas toward Danny.
“Cut it out!” he grumbled, casting me a look that reminded me how much he’d rather have had fish and chips. “Have you lost your mind? I know you’re worried, but this isn’t the answer.”
“Chocolate chip cookies are always the answer.”
He eyed the cooling racks full of dozens of cookies. I may have done test runs of several variations—chocolate chip with walnuts, with pecans and whiskey-soaked golden raisins, with hazelnuts and dried cherries, with white chocolate chunks, with oats, with peanut butter . . . It had been a very long evening.
“How will you know when it’s all over with?” Danny asked.
That was the tricky bit. “The arrest isn’t happening until tomorrow,” I confessed. “Did I forget to tell you that part?”
His glower confirmed that I had “forgotten.” I’ll spare you the swearword he followed up with. Danny was even worse at waiting around than I was. We both like being on the move.
“It’s a strategy,” I explained, having been over this while at the police department. “There are multiple forces at work here. There are legal issues involved, warrants to be obtained . . .”
I trailed off, not one hundred percent clear on the legal details. Frankly, I’d been trading evil eyes with DC Mishra during the legalese-filled part of my visit. I’d only snapped to later.
“You can’t just barrel in there and start shooting,” I reminded Danny, admiring my nicely golden-brown cookies. I inhaled deeply, savoring their calming, delicious smell. “This isn’t the movies. This is real life. This is the way it is.”
Full of waiting around. I wasn’t wild about it, either.
Nervously, I puttered around, moving cookies from sheet pan to cooling rack, then from cooling rack to serving tray. I’d found one of those three-tiered stands in one of the cupboards. Each of its three levels was chockablock with cookies now.
I put my hands on my hips and surveyed the results of my evening’s labor. “Maybe a batch with olive oil and sea salt?”
There are innumerable variations on the king of cookies. That’s why they’re the king of cookies. But for that latest variation, I would need mild olive oil and flaky fleur de sel.
I opened the nearest cupboard door and started searching.
“Are you going to eat any of those?” Danny wanted to know.
I shrugged. “I doubt it. I feel pretty wound up at the moment.” I nudged a pan nearer to him. “You go ahead, though.”
With knowing eyes, my security expert watched me. “It’s not too late to take things into our own hands, you know. We might be able to extract a confession. That would move things along.”
“So would my murder, if things went wrong.” I shuddered as I envisioned that grisly scenario. “Let’s just wait this out.”
Danny frowned. So did I. Our gazes met. They held.
We both knew of one thing that would distract us for sure.
Fortunately, that’s when my cell phone rang.
“Maybe they moved early.” I grabbed it and answered.
Danny started pacing at the same moment I heard Constable George’s jocular voice on the other end. “We’re on,” he said in an excited, confidential tone. “It’s definitely happening tomorrow. So I would suggest you avoid Primrose at all costs.”
I caught his meaning instantly. “You’re doing it at the TV taping? But there’ll be so many people there,” I reminded him.
All of the chocolaterie-pâtisserie’s crew would be present behind the scenes. So would Phoebe (of course), the TV film crew, Nicola and Claire . . . and Andrew Davies from Hambleton & Hart, if what I’d overheard him saying earlier was correct.
“That’s the whole idea,” George informed me. “No place to run, no place to hide. Instant coverage on the telly, too.”
Aha. The police department had taken a drubbing in the press for not having already captured Jeremy’s killer, I knew. I’d read the papers; they undoubtedly had too. They probably wanted to capitalize on the ready-made publicity on offer.
“Well, if you’re sure,” I hedged, glancing at Danny.
He was busy scanning the guesthouse, making sure we were safe. That was my security expert for you—making things secure.
“Just sit tight,” George urged. “We have to do this right.”
I felt a sudden burst of nostalgia for the times I’d gone in after a killer with a half-formed plan, a bit of intuition, and a lot of luck on my side. But that was foolish, wasn’t it?
It was. Travis would have agreed. Danny too, despite his earlier comment about our potential ability to move things along ourselves. We both knew this was (still) the smart way to go.
I inhaled, then nodded. “Okay. Thanks, George.”
Then I hung up the phone and looked at Danny. “There’s someplace we have to be,” I told him. “And it’s not here.”
Then I grabbed a jacket and my bag, and we were on our way.
* * *
It’s important, in life, to have allies. I have Danny and Travis. I have my mom and dad. I have friends scattered worldwide, people I trust from Monte Carlo to Oamaru. I value their support, and I treasure the special qualities they bring to my life—things like humor, expertise, and the ability to bake Belgian gaufres (sugar-studded waffles) to the perfect shade of golden brown and the ideal level of crispiness.
But not everyone is as lucky as I am. Not everyone has someone they can count on. That’s why I found myself, with Danny steadfastly and pugnaciously by my side, back in the East End.
That rough neighborhood looked no quainter or cheerier in the dark, I can tell you that. Long past midnight, the council estate where Jeremy Wright had grown up to become one of the world’s most famous culinary celebrities was partly deserted.
Except for the extra-shady parts, where we were going.
As we made our way down the darkened street, past bits of trash, to one of the pubs I’d heard about while consulting at Primrose, Danny cocked his dark eyebrow at me. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, keeping a watchful eye around us.
I nodded, then kept going. I won’t tell you I wasn’t nervous; I was. Gridskipping doesn’t make you immune to danger.
In some ways, though, staying alone in our guesthouse with nothing to do except wait might have been pretty dangerous for Danny and me, too . . . if you catch my drift. That had been a pretty loaded look we’d exchanged, right before George’s call.
Taming our boredom by testing out that four-poster would have been stupid and dangerous. Plus, this was productive.
“I’m sure.” I found the place I wanted, then opened the front door. Inside, it couldn’t have been more different from The Fat Squirrel. The pub we’d entered had none of that place’s charm or antiquity. Its barman had none of the same bonhomie.
Danny backed me up, but I took the lead. Maybe I’m crazy. Or just really eager not to wind up in bed with Danny again.
I spotted the person I was looking for in the corner, playing darts. He flung one as we approached. It hit its mark.
“Nice one.” I nodded at Hugh Menadue. “How are you, Hugh?”
His friends howled with annoyance, berating Hugh for the interruption in their game. He shrugged, obviously used to their abuse. It seemed to all be in good fun. You know, with knives.
I glanced downward. Hugh still carried his in his boot.
Danny stood behind me, probably looking fearsome. It was his specialty in situations like this. Given his background, he has no trouble pulling it off. He means business. It shows.
The lanky, tattooed baker rolled his eyes at me. “Listen good, all right? If you’re lookin’ to bring me back to work, you can just piss off. I’m finished with all that stuff.”
You’ve probably guessed that he didn’t say “stuff.”
“I’m not here to rehire you,” I told him, trying not to breathe in too deeply. I’m no fussbudget, but Hug
h’s local pub didn’t smell like roses and sugar cookies. It smelled like cut-rate beer, cheap perfume, and the sweat of hard-working men. “I’m here because I like you, Hugh. You’re young and dumb, and you’re going to make some mistakes because of that, but—”
“Oi!” He balled his hands in fists. “I ain’t dumb!”
“—but that doesn’t mean you should pay for what someone else did,” I finished calmly. “Unless you want to do that?”
His frown expanded as he edged us both toward an empty table. I went willingly, but Danny got between us for one long, tense minute. Whatever stare-off they had had, it improved Hugh’s willingness to listen by a factor of ten. Thanks, Danny.
“Look, I didn’t do nothin’.” Hugh pounded his chest, his expression fierce. “And I don’t want anybody sayin’ I did.”
I believed him. Almost. “In this case, doing ‘nothing’ is almost as bad as doing ‘something’.” I leaned nearer, avoiding a puddle of spilled lager on the scarred table. “I know you know what I mean.” I hardened my expression, hoping to make an impression on him. “Go to the police. Tell them what you know—”
Hugh gave a bitter laugh. He looked away. “Yeah, right. As if them lot are going to listen to somebody like me.”
“—or be charged as an accessory to murder. Jeremy’s murder.” I kept my gaze fixed on his troubled face. I thought I was getting through to him. “You liked Jeremy. He was good to you. He gave you extra work, delivering things for his parties.”
Hugh’s lip wobbled. I knew I’d struck a nerve. He might be used to acting tough, but this was a different story. This was murder. There was no finessing this—no talking big and smashing up pans. Myra had been right when she’d noticed changes in him.
What’s got into you lately? she’d asked Hugh after he’d had his chocolate-spilling tirade at Primrose. It had been a cogent observation because of just one word: lately.
That single word had told me that Hugh’s short-temperedness was something new. I’d followed up with some questions later, of course, but I’d had my suspicions then. Now, with (almost) all the dots connected for me, I thought I knew why he’d been upset.
The Semi-Sweet Hereafter Page 25
