Sweet Revenge (Cocoa Narel Chocolate Shop Mysteries Book 1)

by Morgana Best

  “Actually, I want to sell my house and buy a new one, so I will list it with you,” I said. “Oh, by the way, I’m not in any rush. It’s a bit hard opening a business when I’ve just got out of the hospital, so I’ll probably wait until I feel like my business is running smoothly before I sell the house and buy a new one.”

  “What sort of house will you be looking for?” Borage asked me.

  “I do like cute cottages,” I said. “I’d like something in the same area because I like the outlook over the park. I also like the area where Carl lives, which isn’t too far from here.” I pointed to the end of the walking track. Carl’s street ran off mine at right angles and had a view over an adjoining park. There was no walking track behind his park. The local council kept the grass nice and short, and the area was generally devoid of people. That was something I could go for.

  “You and Carl are very close, aren’t you,” Borage said.

  “Yes,” I said. “He’s been my best friend since high school. Oh, of course you know that. I keep forgetting that you used to be Tom.” I felt silly when I said that, because he still was Tom—only his name had changed. At any rate, Borage didn’t seem to think I had said anything untoward.

  “How many bedrooms, that sort of thing?”

  “I haven’t really thought that far ahead,” I said. “My house was left to me by my aunt, and it only has one bedroom. If it was bigger, I’d keep it, because I like the view over the park and it’s in a nice quiet area. It’s a shame the land it’s on is so tiny or I’d be able to extend.”

  “So yours is the little house right at the end?” Borage asked.

  I nodded. “The house is new and doesn’t have any character. My aunt bought it as a new build. She thought she’d have it for years, but she passed away from a heart attack. It was very sudden.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Borage said.

  I jumped as I heard a crack of thunder in the distance. I looked at the horizon and saw the clouds gathering. “Looks like a thunderstorm coming,” I said, stating the obvious.

  We had reached my yard, I turned to thank Borage for walking me home, when there was a hissing sound.

  The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back on the grass, and Borage was on top of me. Although it happened in an instant, it seemed to happen in slow motion. Why was Borage on top of me? Not that I was complaining, mind you. Truth be told, I was quite enjoying it. My mind tried in vain to clutch at what had happened.

  “Narel, are you okay?” Borage asked.

  I wondered why I wouldn’t be okay. What had happened? I must have missed something.

  “Narel, are you okay?” Borage asked again, more urgently this time. “Stay down,” he added.

  I finally found my voice. “What happened?”

  Borage looked up and away to the side. I followed his gaze.

  There was an arrow, firmly embedded in my fence, a short distance from where my head had just been. It slowly dawned on me that someone had shot at us.

  “Now,” Borage said, “we’re going to make a run for your house. We’ll only be out of cover for a short distance and then your house will block the direction the arrow came from. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I said, but I had no idea whether or not I was ready.

  “Go!” Borage grabbed my arm and half-pulled, half-dragged me to the safety of the house. My heart was racing one hundred miles an hour.

  When we reached the safety of my front door, my hands fumbled with the key in the lock. I had always been annoyed in movies when people are in danger and can’t get the key in the lock, but now I was in the same predicament. My hands were trembling horribly. Finally, Borage took the key from me and swiftly unlocked my door. He all but pushed me inside.

  “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll go and shut the curtains in your living room.”

  Within a short time, he had returned. “Come in,” he said. I followed him into my living room and sank into my sofa. I was shaken. It all seemed surreal. I vaguely wondered whether I was having a dream and would soon wake up. At least Borage wasn’t wearing anything that looked like rope, and Mongrel was still in his basket.

  It slowly dawned on me that Borage was calling the police. When he had finished his call, he walked over and sat next to me on the sofa. “The police are on their way,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Not for me,” I said. “But please help yourself. I have wine or something in one of the cupboards. I would love a nice hot cup of tea, though.”

  “Leave it to me.” Soon Borage returned with a nice hot cup of tea. I sipped it slowly. What is it about hot sugary tea that makes someone feel better? Although it was a horrible incident, at least now I realized that Borage wasn’t the murderer. That was a huge relief. What wasn’t such a relief was that the murderer was now targeting me, or perhaps Borage—maybe even both of us. So what about the theory that the murderer was one of the victims of The Populars? This incident seemed to blow that theory out of the water.

  Chapter 18

  I hadn’t yet finished my tea when there was a knock at the door. I hoped it was the detectives and not the murderer, although I did wonder why a murderer would knock at the door. Still, you can’t be too careful.

  Borage went to answer the door and promptly returned with the two detectives, Rieker and Clyde. Rieker wasted no time coming to the point. “Does anyone need medical attention?”

  “No, the arrow missed both of us,” I said, relieved that neither of them had any rope on their person.

  “Forensics are out now looking at the weapon,” Rieker said. Clyde went back outside while Rieker sat on the chair opposite me and flipped open his notepad. “Please take a seat, Mr. Fletcher.”

  We both told him what had happened, which didn’t seem to take too long—the first time that is, because he made us repeat ourselves several times. I started to think it was worse to go over the same thing again and again than to be shot at with an arrow.

  “And so you two just happened to meet up in the park?” There was a good measure of disbelief in his tone.

  “Yes,” I said somewhat defensively. “I went for a walk and got tired and sat on the seat.”

  “And I was on my afternoon jog and saw her there and stopped to talk,” Borage said. “I offered to walk her home, as I’ve already told you several times.”

  “And neither of you saw anyone that you knew at any point?” Rieker asked us.

  We both shook our heads. “I wasn’t really looking,” I said, “but I didn’t see anyone I knew throughout my entire walk, apart from Borage, of course.”

  “Can either of you think of anyone who has a grudge against you? Please think before you answer. Most people always answer ‘no’ to that question, and then they eventually think of someone who it could be.”

  I tapped my chin. “I can’t think of anyone who has a grudge against me.”

  Rieker looked at Borage. “What about you? I’m sure realtors must have a lot of enemies.”

  “I’ve only recently moved back to town, and I can’t think of anyone who have any reason to kill me, or even wish me any sort of harm,” Borage said. He was frowning deeply.

  Rieker looked disappointed. “Is there anyone you can stay with, Miss Myers, until this all blows over?”

  “Don’t you think it’s safe for me to stay here?” I asked him.

  Rieker was silent for a moment before answering. “It’s better to be safe than sorry,” he said. “It would be best if you could stay with someone. Is there anyone you can stay with for a few days to a week?”

  “I suppose Carl won’t mind if I stay with him.”

  “All right then, call him now and arrange it, please,” Rieker said. “I’ll have a uniformed officer drive you there. Collect your things now, please.”

  I thanked him and left the room to go pack. As I left the room, I heard him asking Borage if he had someone who he could stay with. When Borage answered that he didn’t, Rieker informed him that he would request a
patrol car to be parked outside his house.

  I was truly worried. I had thought the murderer was one of the victims of The Populars, but now whoever it was had turned on me, and on Borage for that matter. Unless Borage was hiding something and had changed his name for a reason other than what he had told us. What if he was wanted by organized crime? What if Borage was the real target of the murderer? Had the murderer killed the others to throw the scent off their true victim? I had seen such things in movies, where someone murdered a bunch of innocent people so that the motive for the real intended victims would be obscured.

  Chapter 19

  I waited patiently, listening for signs of life inside Carl’s house. After a full minute, I tried ringing the door bell again. Finally, I heard footsteps from inside. The door opened wide, revealing a smiling and tired looking Carl.

  “Narel! I’m so sorry. I fell asleep on the sofa after you called. How long have you been waiting?” he asked, concerned.

  “Not long,” I lied. We’d both been under a lot of stress, so I could hardly blame him for catching up on sleep. The last thing I wanted was to make him feel bad about it. “Oh, I brought you these,” I said as I handed him two large boxes.

  “Oh, thanks!” He beamed. “Uh, what are they?”

  “Oh, it’s just a nice raw lasagna with cilantro pesto and marinated vegetables.” I smiled at Carl’s shocked reaction.

  “That’s great, Narel. Thanks,” Carl said in a less than convincing tone.

  “I’m kidding,” I said, playfully punching his arm. “One’s full of chocolates; the other’s full of chocolate cake. I’ve included some of my favorite chocolates. There are cinnamon ones, which are filled with cinnamon-infused cream and honey, dipped in dark chocolate, and then dusted with cinnamon. This one’s coffee-flavored, which is basically the same as the last one only with coffee-infused cream and it’s covered with caramelized coffee beans rather than cinnamon. Another has toasted almonds mixed with dried cherries in a hazelnut ganache. And the cake is actually a chocolate mousse cake with chocolate mascarpone.”

  Carl stared blankly at me for a long time before he spoke. “Narel, I appreciate all this; I really do. But you could’ve just that they were chocolates and cake.” He laughed.

  I felt a little embarrassed. “Sorry. It’s good to be passionate about my work though, right?”

  “Right you are. Anyway, go on in. I’ll get your bags, and Mongrel.” He stepped back from the front door and beckoned me inside his house.

  I waved to the police officer waiting outside in the car. Mongrel had growled and hissed from his basket the whole way to Carl’s place.

  Despite the fact I had seen it a million times before, I was struck by how white the interior of his house was: white chairs, white carpet, white walls. Luckily it was impossible to buy things like book interiors and plants in white, or the house would be hard to navigate. It was a strange look, but gave weight to certain elements, creating a bizarre contrast of flat white furniture and bright colored accessories and utilities.

  Carl put the cake in the fridge and sat the box of chocolates on his living room table. He opened them up for us to share and I immediately took two or three. Okay, I took five. Carl walked over to me. “We’ll have to make sure to keep Louis the Fourteenth and Mongrel separate while you’re staying here. Louis’s asleep on my bed at the moment, so I’ve shut my bedroom door. You can open Mongrel’s basket now, if you like.”

  I shuddered. “Why don’t you, Carl?” It had taken every ounce of bravery for me to shut the basket door for the ride over.

  Carl gingerly opened the door, and while Mongrel made terribly scary sounds, he kept his huge paws to himself. Carl walked over to a large whiteboard sitting in the center of the room and grabbed a black marker.

  “We’ll need to update our list of suspects first, I suppose,” he said.

  I’d come here to discuss the murders with him, but hearing him say that so flatly put me on edge. “Is that the best place to start?” I asked. “I mean, I’m not exactly a veteran crime solver, but shouldn’t we start with motives?”

  Carl laughed when I asked. “I think you’re right. We’ll concentrate on our list of victims.” Carl scribbled on the whiteboard. When he was done he stepped back, revealing five names in total.

  “Lucinda?” I asked. “She’s not a victim.”

  “Only by blind luck,” Carl reminded me. “We should treat her as a victim, I think, since I’m sure the killer will try to, well, kill her.” I nodded in response, realizing that he had a point. He continued. “So, we have the five victims, or rather, four victims and a possible victim-to-be. But what if the killer was actually one of the victims and has since died?”

  “That doesn’t add up,” I pointed out. “The murderer is still at large. I think it’s a wild leap to assume that somebody has killed the original killer and then moved on to kill the others. It’s certainly all the work of the same person.”

  Carl looked up, clearly deep in thought. “What if it was more than one person?” he asked. “For all we know they were in on it together, and it’s all backfired. Maybe they started to kill each other!” he exclaimed.

  I sighed and rubbed my temples. “I wasn’t exactly a fan of The Populars either, Carl, but I really don’t think they’re to blame for this. They’re quite clearly the victims here, and the killer is more likely to be someone like us, as I keep saying. Someone who was bullied by them, either back in school or more recently.”

  Carl thought for a moment, before looking up at me and snapping his fingers. “I’ve got it! Coffee will help us.” He laughed. “Would you like some?”

  I smiled. “Yes, please, that’s a great idea. This is bleak enough without caffeine.” After a few minutes, Carl returned with a coffee mug and placed it on the table in front of me. It was a pure white mug, of course. It’s a wonder he hadn’t figured out how to turn coffee white.

  “Well,” Carl began, “we shouldn’t assume anything at this point, except that the victims—Lucinda excluded—are all quite dead. As such, we shouldn’t treat them as suspects.”

  “I agree,” I said, nodding. “We’re likely to have a long enough list without them, and it seems unlikely. So where do we go from here?” I asked.

  Carl looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

  “I thought that would be obvious. We look at who they’ve bullied,” he said, shrugging. “It seems like the most obvious route.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I admitted with a resigned sigh. “It’s just not something I really wanted to bring up again. All right, let’s make a new list. Who’s first?”

  “First up is Wayne Sidebottom, who was born with the unfortunate kind of surname that guarantees at least some level of bullying.” Carl wrote Wayne’s full name on the board as he spoke.

  “And what did they do to him?” I asked, swallowing hard. I knew this was going to bring back some painful memories, although it wasn’t as if they ever left.

  “It’s about as straightforward as bullying goes, really. They almost lose marks for unoriginality, but they used to drag him behind the toilets, beat him up and literally take his lunch money.”

  “Ouch,” I winced. “Did his dog eat his homework, too?”

  “Probably,” Carl said, unimpressed with my stunning wit. “And given the fact that he recently bought the winery and moved back to town, the timing’s right.”

  “What do you think could have triggered it?” I asked. “I mean, I get that the bullying could be enough, but it seems strange to deal with it all these years and then kill a group of people after buying a winery. His life doesn’t exactly seem like a bad one.”

  “Maybe he bought the winery as a cover to move back to town?” Carl suggested.

  I shook my head. “I seriously doubt it. If anything, it makes him more suspicious. It’s possible that something set him off again, but we’re not going to know that without some serious research,” I said, putting my head into my hands. “Who’s next?” I as
ked.

  “Let’s see,” Carl thought for a moment. “Ah, yeah, Royston Jackson.” He nodded grimly. “I don’t doubt everyone remembers him.”

  “Of course they do,” I sighed. “They pulled his pants down during the big public performance in front of that big crowd.”

  Carl nodded.

  “Oh, I hated those kids,” I sighed again, thinking that it probably wasn’t best to say that about people who had died. It was hard spending my whole life detesting a group of people only to start feeling sorry for them. “What would make Royston snap now, though?” I asked.

  “No idea,” Carl said. “And as far as I can remember that was the only time they bullied him, as bad as it was.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Probably not a prime suspect then, but we’ll keep him in mind. Who else is there?” I asked. We both sat in thought for a while. I took another sip of my coffee and noticed that Carl had eaten most of the chocolates when I wasn’t looking.

  “Hmm, wait a minute,” Carl said. “The Populars actually did something to Royston more recently, remember? I’d forgotten about it. They keyed his BMW.”

  “That’s right! What’s wrong with these people?”

  Carl shrugged in response. “Anyway, that’s more motive for him, so I think he’s bumped up a little on the list. I’m sure that he wouldn’t kill anybody over something so small, but it could have been the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak.”

  We sat in silent thought for a moment.

  “And is Frederick Flowers still our main suspect?”

  “Yes, I think so, considering they took photos of him on the toilet and uploaded them to the internet. He’s probably well and truly sick of people looking him up online. The photos are still there, too. We saw for ourselves that he has serious anger management issues.” Carl sat down and stretched his arms out in front of him.