Death by Chocolate Lab

by Bethany Blake

  That was the wrong thing for me to say to Maeve Templeton, who maintained two computer-synchronized day planners, one for professional engagements and one for social ones. She’d been tearing open her third packet of Sweet’N Low for her coffee, a special blend Giulia had created just for her, appropriately called Seize the Day, but she stopped in mid-shred to raise her eyebrows slightly at me. “Do you, dear? Do you have plans?”

  “Yes,” I said, pulling apart my cornetto alla crema, a flaky, horn-shaped pastry filled with sweet, thick custard. I deserved one—or more—of Giulia’s freshly baked sweets after the sleepless night I’d endured. That storm I’d seen rolling in while talking to Jonathan had been massive. I wasn’t normally jumpy, but I’d huddled under my printed Indian coverlet, flinching at each too-close strike of lightning and feeling my chest rumble and the bones of the old house rattle when the thunder boomed. I also had a headache from Artie snoring in my ear all night. But how could I leave him shivering on the floor, given that Socrates had slumbered soundly, offering no comfort? “I promised Piper that I’d help Mr. Peachy today,” I explained, because Mom was watching me skeptically. “Some branches came down during the storm, and she doesn’t want him to clear them out alone.”

  My mother stirred the sweetener into her coffee, shaking her head and tsk-tsking the whole time. “I don’t know why Piper continues to employ that old man if he can’t do the job he’s paid to do. And what do you even know about him? I don’t know of any other Peachys in Sylvan Creek.”

  “First of all, Mr. Peachy does more before eight a.m. than I do all day,” I said, immediately regretting the comment. I forged ahead before my mom could say anything. She was already opening her mouth. “And just because his family didn’t come here on the Mayflower and stay forever, multiplying, doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with him,” I added, eating a bite of my pastry and covering my mouth so I could keep talking. “He’s a nice old guy.”

  Mom sipped her coffee, but she didn’t respond—which indicated that she disagreed—so I reminded her, “You practically arranged a marriage for Piper and Jonathan Black the other night, and he’s new in town. What do we know about him?”

  Actually, I knew quite a bit about Jonathan. Things that I doubted my mother was aware of. But she knew the one thing that mattered to her.

  “He is prepared to purchase a four-bedroom home, which indicates that he is more than ready to settle into our community and ‘multiply,’ as you so crassly put it,” she countered. “And given that he is an officer of the law, I am confident that he will become a pillar of local society.”

  “You are emphasizing a lot of words but not convincing me,” I said, lifting my mug to sip my chai tea. “Your logic would not stand up to dissection under the Socratic method.”

  The Socratic method wasn’t really designed for debates like we were having—meaning pointless ones—but bringing up my philosophy degree had the desired effect of provoking my mother into action. She gulped down her coffee, set the mug on the table, and said, “Come along, Daphne. Let’s go. . . .” She cocked her head. “Where did you say we’re going?”

  “The van’s outside of town,” I said vaguely. I hadn’t yet formulated a story that would explain why my VW was at Steve Beamus’s.

  “Well, let’s go purchase some gasoline and limp that old thing back to Sylvan Creek,” Mom said. She shook her head again and sighed. “I can’t believe you would just run out of fuel!”

  As I’d cowered under my covers, I’d reluctantly come to the conclusion that five dollars’ worth of gas probably hadn’t been enough for the trip to Steve’s.

  Otherwise, my thoughts had been occupied by the inscription in the book, which Jonathan had ultimately taken with him.

  Virginia? And Steve?

  And what “tragedy” did they share that might someday yield fruit that was “more sweet than bitter”?

  Finally, how many packets of artificial sweetener had Virginia downed before inking that saccharine message?

  “I have houses to show,” Mom added, tossing the day’s silk scarf—a red-and-navy geometric design—over her shoulder. She was wearing white slacks, so the effect was quite patriotic. As she walked toward the door, assuming I’d follow, she asked, without looking back, “Will you need to borrow money for the gas?”

  Given that I’d searched all my pockets to come up with twenty dollars, I really resented that question. However, I didn’t want to get into an argument with her.

  In fact, I suddenly decided that I didn’t want to accept a ride from my mother, either. Doing so would mean I owed her a big favor, which might result in me being forced to test for a license to sell real estate, the purchase of “sensible” clothes, and a lifetime of indentured servitude at Templeton Realty, Inc.

  Things could easily spin out of control that way with Mom.

  Meanwhile, I spied someone I wanted to talk with before I left. A person whose left ring finger was sparkling as she restocked pastries in a glass counter.

  I might’ve had three cornetti that morning, depleting the supply.

  “I’ll catch up with you later,” I told Mom, who was opening the door. “Don’t worry about giving me a ride. I’ll find another one.”

  My mother turned back, one hand on her hip. An oversize red Coach bag dangled from her wrist. “Honestly, Daphne, I will never understand your unusual whims.”

  Then she breezed out of the café without so much as a good-bye.

  When my mom was gone, leaving the shop empty of other customers, I approached Giulia and asked what was probably a stupid question, given the impressive size of the diamond on her delicate hand.

  “Are congratulations in order?”

  Chapter 39

  “Oh, goodness . . . You startled me,” Giulia said, withdrawing from the case, straightening, then rubbing her head, which she’d bumped on the glass when I’d addressed her. Wiping her hands on a spotless white apron, she came out from behind the counter. “I didn’t see you there!”

  I wasn’t sure how she’d failed to see me through a big pane of glass, but I apologized. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She smiled, although she still seemed nervous. She ran one hand the length of her glossy black ponytail, unnecessarily smoothing it, since it was already perfectly sleek. “Of course you didn’t,” she assured me. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.”

  Grinning, I gestured to the ring. “Maybe you’ve got pre-wedding jitters?”

  I was joking, but Giulia didn’t laugh. She fidgeted with the diamond. I didn’t know anything about carat weights, but I knew that the rock on her finger was large by most standards. It was cut in a square shape and set in a wide silver—or perhaps platinum—band that complemented her olive skin.

  “Yes, I suppose I have jitters,” she finally agreed quietly. “Christian wants to get married very soon. I suppose I am nervous.”

  I almost asked, “What’s the rush?” Then I realized that was none of my business. Instead, I said, “Well, congratulations again. The ring is beautiful.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, smiling wanly. “Christian has wonderful taste. He put much thought into this ring.”

  For a woman with a handsome, wealthy, and supposedly thoughtful fiancé, Giulia looked more like a prisoner on the way to the gallows than a bride on the way to the altar.

  Well, maybe she didn’t look that bad. But she didn’t seem overjoyed, like most newly engaged people.

  If she’d been happier, I probably wouldn’t have burst her bubble by bringing up a sad subject. But since she already seemed glum, I said, “Hey, Giulia . . . I’ve been meaning to ask you. Did you see anything suspicious at Winding Hill the night of Steve’s murder? It might really help Piper if you could think of anything unusual. . . .”

  I let my voice trail off, because Giulia wasn’t looking at me anymore. The café’s door had opened behind me, letting in a rush of warm air and a customer whose presence was drawing Giulia’s attention a
nd causing her to take a step backward.

  I turned around, not sure why Giulia looked unhappy to see the person approaching the counter, or why he, in turn, seemed displeased with me.

  Chapter 40

  Before the arrival of Jonathan Black, Christian Clarke had been the most handsome man in Sylvan Creek. That was an indisputable fact. With his blue eyes, dirty blond hair, and shiny white teeth, he was rural Pennsylvania’s answer to Brad Pitt. And Christian had something else most local guys lacked: fashion sense. Most of the men in Sylvan Creek stuck to a wardrobe of T-shirts and jeans, but Christian—who did something in the banking industry—often wore tailored suits and sweaters that I thought looked like cashmere, although I couldn’t be sure.

  As Christian stood before me, glowering, I wondered if he was angry because a dark-haired newcomer was now in the running for his unofficial title.

  Maybe Christian didn’t think Sylvan Creek was big enough for two men with movie-star looks.

  Then again, he might’ve been unhappy because I was asking nosy questions about Steve Beamus’s murder.

  “As Giulia and I told several police officers, we didn’t see anything out of the ordinary the night Steve was killed,” he informed me before I even had a chance to greet or congratulate him. He placed an arm around Giulia’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze, along with a smile that I thought was forced. “Right, honey?”

  Giulia tucked a few strands of hair that had slipped from her ponytail behind her ear. “Yes, we saw nothing,” she agreed, with a similarly fake, shaky smile. “I was busy setting up my trailer.”

  She was telling the truth about being preoccupied. I recalled that she had been working hard—while Christian had been standing around, supervising. Or, more accurately, staring in the general direction of Steve Beamus’s truck.

  Christian drew Giulia even closer, his fingers flexing around her shoulder. “You must be very worried about Piper if you’re going around asking questions, Daphne.”

  Christian had attended the same high school as me, but he’d been two years ahead of me and part of an entirely different social circle. He’d been the popular prom king, and I’d been . . .

  What had I been?

  Regardless, I’d never known Christian that well. And I wasn’t exactly liking him right then. He was trying to sound sympathetic, but he didn’t seem sincere.

  He was also hiding something. But I wasn’t going to learn anything more from him. He wasn’t clamming up like Bryce Beamus, but he wasn’t being forthcoming, either. He also wasn’t going to let Giulia speak for herself. That arm around her shoulders might as well have been a gag on her mouth. I could see in her eyes that she felt trapped.

  I wished I could withdraw the congratulations I’d offered Giulia. Unless I was completely wrong—and I didn’t think I was—I didn’t have high hopes for her being happy once they were married.

  Why was a beautiful, successful, smart woman making such a bad match?

  “I’m sure Piper’s gonna be just fine,” I finally told Christian. Then I addressed Giulia, changing the subject. “I don’t suppose you’d share your recipe for cornetti, would you? I’d still buy them here all the time, but it would be nice to be able to make them at home, too. I might even adapt them for dogs. Fill them with peanut butter, you know? I think it might be cute! But if the recipe’s a family secret, or you just don’t want to give it out, don’t worry. . . .”

  I’d started babbling, because as soon as I’d asked for the recipe, I could tell Giulia was unwilling to share it.

  All at once, though, she got a funny look on her face and said, “Yes, yes, Daphne. Of course, you may have the recipe. And I hope you make a special cornetto for the little dog with the funny face.” She twisted slightly to free herself from Christian’s grasp and lifted his arm from her shoulder. “Excuse me, dear.”

  He reluctantly let her go, and she headed behind the counter, toward the kitchen. Raising one finger, she promised, “I will be back in one minute.”

  “You don’t have to get the recipe now,” I told her, mainly because I was afraid she might have to copy it by hand, and I’d be stuck making uncomfortable small talk with Christian for way more than a minute.

  It was too late, though. Giulia had already disappeared into Espresso Pronto’s back room, leaving Christian and me alone.

  He made no attempt at conversation. He just stared at me.

  “So,” I finally said. “You and Giulia are getting married, huh?”

  “Yes,” he informed me. “Yes, we are.”

  I refused to congratulate him. “So . . . umm . . . did you pick a place yet?”

  “Yes,” he said. “The chapel at Wynton.”

  He was referring to a charming, old stone building on the campus of Wynton University, which was a small but prestigious college just outside Sylvan Creek.

  “Oh, that’ll be really pretty,” I said, forgetting for a moment that I thought Giulia was making a mistake. I could picture her walking down the aisle in a long white dress, under the chapel’s ancient arched beams, while sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the whitewashed walls with soft colors. “What a great place for a wedding.”

  I was so caught up in my fantasy that I also forgot I was in the midst of an awkward conversation with the groom-to-be, until Christian snapped me back to reality, noting, “Giulia’s afraid our guests will keep thinking about Steve’s funeral during our ceremony, but I told her that she shouldn’t worry. Steve’s service will be a distant memory in a few weeks.”

  That seemed like a cold thing to say.

  And why was I just learning about Steve’s funeral, which was apparently scheduled?

  “Christian, no . . .”

  Hearing a soft, dismayed voice behind me, I turned to see that Giulia had rejoined us. She was standing just outside the door to the kitchen and held a piece of paper in her hand. Her face was uncharacteristically pale.

  Clearly, she also considered her fiancé’s comment inappropriate. But she didn’t say more, and Christian didn’t respond to the mild rebuke. He acted like he hadn’t even heard it.

  “Here,” Giulia said, approaching me and smiling again. But I saw concern in her dark eyes. “This is the recipe. I hope you make cornetti very soon and bring me one to try. Please?”

  “Definitely,” I agreed, accepting the folded paper. I stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Good-bye,” Christian said, dismissing me.

  I gave them both a small wave and headed for the door. “I’ll see you two later.”

  “Yes, I hope so,” Giulia said, waving back at me. Her diamond glittered when her fingers waggled. “Ciao!”

  Espresso Pronto was one of my favorite spots in town, but for the first time ever, I felt a sense of relief when I stepped outside into the sunlight.

  What had just happened?

  Why had Giulia acted like a hostage?

  I pictured her expression as she’d handed me the recipe, telling me, “I hope you make cornetti very soon. . . .”

  I was walking down the street, headed nowhere in particular, since I had no van, but I suddenly stopped in my tracks and pulled the recipe from my pocket.

  Unfolding the paper, I saw not just a list of ingredients but also a note.

  Please meet me Thursday at midnight on the bench near the creek in Pettigrew Park. I have something important to share, privately. Please come alone. G.

  My heart started racing, but I also thought, Really? A secret note? Why not just call or text me? I was definitely on Giulia’s list of contacts. She always let me know when she made my favorite honey-pistachio biscotti.

  Then I read the postscript below Giulia’s initial.

  P.S. I tried to text you, but I think your phone is broken? I receive three error messages!

  I jammed the paper back into my pocket, resolving to get a new phone.

  I would also be at the park at the appointed time.

  But would I real
ly go alone, given how odd Giulia was acting?

  I was trying to decide—and figure out how to get back to Steve Beamus’s to reclaim my van—when to my surprise a very distinctive VW with a misshapen horse-dog on the side came rolling down the street.

  Chapter 41

  “I really don’t understand why people have to wear uncomfortable clothes to funerals,” I told Piper, who was driving us to the chapel at Wynton University. She’d given me the ride on the condition that I borrow one of her dark pencil skirts and a stiff, starchy blouse for Steve’s memorial service. I couldn’t even bear to look at my feet, which were crammed into one of her many pairs of sensible black pumps. I squirmed on the leather seat of her Acura sedan. “Something is itching me!”

  “Tell me again why you’re even going,” Piper suggested. “We’ve established that you weren’t Steve’s biggest fan.”

  “I want to offer you moral support,” I said, although Piper wasn’t outwardly grieving anymore. She wasn’t the type of person to weep for days on end. “And I found Steve’s body,” I added. “I feel like we share a connection now. I want to wish his soul good luck as it embarks on the next great adventure.”

  “Speaking of adventures,” Piper said, downshifting to round a sharp curve, “what in the world were you doing at Steve’s house?”

  I had been avoiding that question for more than a day, and I tried to dodge it one more time. “Yes, thanks for taking Dylan to get my van,” I said. “That was really nice of you both.”

  I’d been happily surprised when Dylan delivered the VW to me, with a full tank of gas, courtesy of Piper, who swore she’d bought the fuel only so she wouldn’t have to bail me out again in a day or so.

  Piper didn’t acknowledge my gratitude. “I asked what you were doing at Steve’s,” she reminded me.