Dead and Ganache

by Colette London

  Naturally, I started with the food. I was starving after traveling, unpacking, and changing into a knee-length dress with flats and my most stylish jacket. My chocolates had long since worn off, so I tried a cheesy mushroom galette (basically, a savory crêpe) first. Then I chased it down with local apple cider served the traditional Breton way: in a small bowl, held cupped in both hands. Voilà! Dinner was served.

  After that, I headed toward the town’s biggest square, in search of Monsieur’s party. It wasn’t hard to spot. I glimpsed a long table full of chatting people, set with a tablecloth and lit by more of those glowing light strings overhead. If I wasn’t mistaken, those were Philippe’s family and friends, come to raise a toast and share a slice of rich far breton cake in his honor.

  Hélène Vetault noticed me. She waved. I waved back.

  With the loud music pushing me along, I trod past the Fest-Noz stalls, one of them undoubtedly representing Philippe’s La Maison des Petits Bonheurs. I was curious which chocolates he’d have on offer, but I didn’t want to stop. Not now, when I’d already spent time noshing on my improvised dinner. Other local shopkeepers sold everything from food to antiques to vivid blue-and-yellow Quimper pottery called faience, which was especially sought after by the English who took summer homes on Brittany’s rocky coast.

  Things didn’t always go smoothly between the locals and those British part-time residents, I’d heard. But at its heart—and despite its history of corsairs (pirates!)—Saint-Malo was a town driven by tourism. For tonight, at least, everyone inside its towering city walls seemed to be getting along famously.

  I moved past another stall, struck by the realization that none of them bore logos or ads. There weren’t paid spokespeople offering samples. There weren’t Fest-Noz bikini models posing with attendees and taking pictures. There wasn’t a Red Bull truck driving around the town square. The sugary crêpes didn’t arrive bearing the golden arches of McDonald’s (McDo to the French).

  The resulting simplicity gave the whole Fest-Noz a sort of nostalgic glow. Being there was, in some ways, like stepping back in time—eating traditional foods, listening to traditional music, watching traditional dances that had been performed the same way for generations. I liked the Bretons’ deep sense of history.

  Passing the final vendor, I glanced to the left. That’s when I saw it: the massive archway in the city wall leading to the centre-ville . . . and the huge, spotlit banner plastered atop it.

  La Maison des Petits Bonheurs. All the best for Bretagne.

  Aww. No wonder Philippe had wanted his retirement party at the Fest-Noz, I realized. The whole town must have turned the festival into a celebration of Monsieur Vetault and his work.

  Touched, I took out my phone to snap a photo. Then I swiveled in place, looking for more tributes to my mentor.

  Philippe deserves this, I thought. He’d worked so long and so tirelessly. He’d shared his expertise and his scrumptious chocolat with so many people. Maybe I’d overlooked another banner? Maybe, in the darkness, I’d marched right past an engraved plaque, a bronze statue, a monsieur-size boxwood topiary in the park edging the square?

  I glanced that way. Then, distracted by a furtive movement in the shadows, I squinted more purposefully in that direction.

  Was that a man creeping through the park’s tall trees?

  As I watched, he dropped to his knees. His arm thrust downward. Something near him on the ground lurched sickeningly.

  I glimpsed a shock of white hair and found myself running.

  * * *

  I wasn’t sure what I planned to do. All I knew was that I recognized that white hair. That was Philippe on the ground.

  Philippe! Enveloped in the park’s chilly rows of hedges and chestnut trees, I knelt beside him, skinning both knees in my haste. I had the awful feeling I was already too late. The man I’d always called Monsieur—with great affection and respect—lay facedown on the ground, cold and motionless in the darkness.

  A heart attack? Maybe a fall? Philippe was getting older . . .

  The man I’d seen a moment ago stood nearby, gibbering to me in slurred, unintelligible French. He looked angry, his face contorted with rage as he stretched his trembling palm toward me. It appeared to be full of something—something that looked like a pool of melted chocolate.

  Blood, I realized shakily. That was blood. I veered back, careful to keep one eye on that unknown man. I didn’t think he’d hurt me. But this park had been designed as a hideaway for the people of the ville—a place for lovers’ assignations and secrets. I wasn’t sure how much anyone at the Fest-Noz could see. I’d only noticed what I had because I’d been purposely, carefully looking.

  Only to find this. Tears sprang to my eyes, blurring my view of the park, the ground, Philippe. Everything happened through a foggy haze. I had to focus.

  I hauled in a breath. Not enough.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening. Not here. Not now.

  More shouting from the distraught-looking Frenchman. I shook my head at him, then felt for a pulse. “Je ne comprends pas.”

  I don’t understand. I didn’t understand, either. Not what the Frenchman was saying or doing. Not what he’d been doing. Not what had happened to dear Philippe, only yards away from the gaily decorated table that had been set for his retirement party.

  I knew it was him. I didn’t want it to be. For a moment, I tried to convince myself this was someone else—someone who’d wandered into the municipal park for a stroll. But I recognized his long apron, tied around his waist. His dark pants and blue collared shirt. His leather oxford shoes, still neatly laced and tied with twin bows—Philippe’s quaint notion of “casual Friday.”

  I didn’t recognize the thing sticking cruelly out of his back, though. It was obvious that’s what had caused all the blood. Something long-handled and sharp . . . something deadly.

  Oh no. No no no. Not Philippe.

  “Au secour!” the other man screamed. He looked about Philippe’s age. Shorter. Louder. “Aidez-moi! C’est Philippe!”

  He was calling for help. But I could have sworn I’d seen him standing over Philippe moments ago. I could have sworn I’d seen him thrusting something downward. The thing? Oh, Philippe . . .

  I glanced behind me, toward the spot where Hélène had flagged me down earlier. I couldn’t see her anymore. In her place were startled locals. People running. Confusion and concern.

  I pressed harder on Philippe’s neck, searching for a pulse. His skin already felt cold. I imagined it was turning paler, too.

  Suddenly, I felt dizzy. I swayed on my knees, blinking back more tears. They swamped my vision anyway, partly obscuring the awful reality. My mentor was dead. Sweet, wonderful, demanding Philippe. He wouldn’t ever make me redo a couverture again.

  He wouldn’t ever smile at me again. I couldn’t stand it.

  I would never be able to stand it. Why had I stayed away so long? That was all I could think about as more people came to help. They crowded around, shouting in emotional French. The gendarmes arrived, competently moving back the festivalgoers to reach Philippe. I blinked up at one policière, a tall brunette with a serious demeanor and an unequivocal air of authority.

  She gave me an order in French. I understood enough of it.

  Move away. She was telling me to leave Philippe’s side.

  I didn’t want to. But her grave expression confirmed what I’d already suspected. Philippe was gone forever. One of the shopkeepers helped me to my feet, murmuring something soothing in French. I gave him a robotic merci and watched the proceedings.

  It all happened with ruthless efficiency. Several officers erected a barricade around the ground where Philippe lay. Portable lights illuminated that awful space. Several gendarmes worked inside the cordoned-off area that held my mentor’s body.

  They were identifying evidence, I realized with a nauseatingly familiar feeling. Because this was a murder.

  Without wanting to, I watched what the policiers were doing.
I watched as they took statements from people nearby, as they lay out evidence tags, as they took photographs. I knew murder now.

  I could help with this. If I could focus, I could help.

  Forcing myself into alertness, I searched the people in the crowd. I still didn’t see Hélène. That was probably for the best, though. The sight of her grief-stricken face would have dissolved what little concentration I’d mustered. I saw other sad faces, heard worried murmurs. I saw children being hurried away by their parents. I saw that even the bagad—the live band—had quit playing. Instead, the musicians had come to see the grisly scene.

  I saw the man who’d loomed menacingly over Philippe, there in the deep shadows, in the moments before I’d rushed to him.

  The village still shone with its festive light strings and decorations, but now the effect was macabre. Chilling. The moon had risen, but its light was muted. In the distance, ocean waves crashed against the craggy shoreline. It seemed miles away.

  So did the girl I’d once been, learning at Monsieur’s side.

  I returned my attention to the man—to Angry Bloody Hands Man, as I thought of him now. He stood arguing with a different gendarme a few feet away, gesticulating as he spoke in fiery French. I made myself stare at him. I wanted to memorize his features, his movements, his face. I’d never forget his voice.

  Au secours! C’est Philippe Vetault!

  I transferred my attention to my mentor, determined to collect all the details I could. He lay on the park’s cold dirt path with one arm outstretched, clutching something in his left hand. A scrap of paper? A business card? A receipt? From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell. I wished I’d had the presence of mind to examine it as a possible clue, but I’d been too upset.

  Feeling queasy, I watched as two gendarmes circled around Philippe’s body, pointing and frowning as they discussed the murder weapon. That’s what the thing had to be, wasn’t it? I couldn’t tell what it was, though, horribly sticking out of Philippe’s back. Some kind of tool? With a wooden handle?

  A spade, I guessed. Or another gardening implement. Maybe something used for woodworking. An awl? It wasn’t a knife. The handle looked too roughhewn for that—too round and too skinny. I’ve been in enough professional (and home) kitchens to recognize a knife when I see it. Philippe hadn’t been killed by a knife.

  But he had been stabbed in the back. That in itself spoke volumes, I thought. Had someone felt betrayed by my mentor?

  “Excusez-moi, Madame,” a woman said. “Je vous—”

  That no-nonsense voice ended my examination. I turned to see the policière I’d noticed earlier—the tall, severe brunette.

  My expression had stopped her cold. She opened her mouth to regroup, but I shook my head. “Parlez-vous anglais?” I asked.

  She nodded and continued in exemplary, if accented, English. “I am Mélanie Flamant, the officer in charge of this case.” Her gaze probed mine. “You were the first to find Monsieur Vetault?”

  “Not the first.” I glanced at the angry man. He’d calmed down somewhat while talking with the police, but I still felt deeply suspicious of him. “Who is that?” I wanted to know.

  Officer Flamant’s mouth tightened. “I will be asking the questions tonight. If there is time, we will get to yours.”

  “He’s a suspect, though, right?” I pushed. “I saw him over Monsieur Vetault’s body. I saw him stab him!” I was sure I had.

  The gruesome memory made me shiver. I felt woozy again.

  Evidently, I looked just as bad as I felt, because Officer Flamant seemed concerned. She took my elbow and led me to a wrought-iron bench nearby. She sat me down on its chilly surface.

  “First, please, your name.” She waited expectantly.

  I obliged. This was the point (usually) where someone in the police department told me, “Don’t leave town, Ms. Mundy Moore.”

  “Tell me exactly what you saw,” Officer Flamant said instead. “Start at the beginning. Step by step. Take your time.”

  She pulled out a notepad. A Moleskine exactly like mine—the one I use to compile to-do lists and make chocolatiering notes.

  We were kindred spirits. This time, I’d have help when I tried to track down a killer. Because that’s what I was going to have to do, I realized numbly. Philippe deserved every effort.

  Determinedly, I nodded. I described everything in detail, from the moment I’d seen the banner dedicated to Philippe and his shop to the instant I’d glanced into the park’s shadowy interior.

  I hauled in a breath and made sure Officer Mélanie Flamant was listening closely. She was. I pointed at the short, angry, bloody-handed man, intending to make sure he did not get away.

  “Then I saw that man,” I said, “kill Philippe Vetault.”

  Three

  You might think that, since I’ve been unfortunate enough to wind up front and center at a few murder cases recently, I would become inured to it all. You’d be wrong. I’m not at all inured.

  I’m just as vulnerable now as I was the first time I stumbled across a dead body. Then, it had been at a chocolate-themed resort and spa near the bay in San Francisco. The victim? A friend who’d been working with me to troubleshoot problems at Lemaître Chocolates. That had been horrible—life-changing, in fact. This time, though, somehow things felt even worse.

  This time, I’d lost a longtime friend. A mentor. Philippe.

  I made my way back to the château, unsure where else to go. I was in no condition to wrangle transport back to the States on such short notice or to board a train to my parents’. Besides, I didn’t want to bring my sadness to their doorstep.

  I clutched the key to my chambre like a talisman, trodding up the ornate stone staircase without seeing much. The oil and watercolor paintings on the walls might as well not have existed. They, like the hand-loomed rugs, gilded lamps, and pieces of antique furniture, were just background to my awful reality.

  Inside my quiet room, I dropped my key on the carved fireplace mantel. I eyed the empty hearth as I slipped out of my one pair of stylish flats, then crossed the room to stare out the tall windows, hugging my jacket against my midsection for warmth. I was still so cold. But that’s my reaction, sometimes, to a crisis. I simply can’t warm up. It would pass eventually. Like a craving for chocolate at midnight, I had to wait it out.

  Around me, the château was silent. I’d passed a housekeeper on my way along the upstairs corridor, but she’d merely nodded and kept walking with an armful of fluffy towels. It seemed likely to me that she wasn’t even aware of what had happened to Philippe.

  It all seemed unbelievable to me, too. Still. Always.

  I might be capable of attending a chocolate industry awards ceremony, parasailing with some Aussie friends, and then tromping through a cacao plantation to assess a harvest—all in the same week—but I’m still a human being, with all the frailties and faults that implies. I’m far from perfect. I’m often alone, too.

  When push comes to shove, that’s the price of my work—the price of my ability to work. Yes, I travel the world doing what I love to do. Yes, Uncle Ross left me with an all-the-chocolate-you-can-eat lifestyle. But it’s not always a nonstop party.

  Fortunately, I have a knack for making friends. People like opening up to me. I like meeting them. I enjoy getting to know everyone from taxi drivers to scuba divers, from chocolate moguls to dishwashers, from mechanics to bakers. Everywhere I go, I’m interested in finding out what people think, what they believe, what they hold dear, and what they prefer in their chocolates.

  But that night, I was all by myself with my shock and grief.

  I still couldn’t believe Philippe was gone—especially not that way. Officer Mélanie Flamant had listened to my statement. She’d carefully noted every word. But she’d appeared distinctly skeptical when I’d pinpointed the angry man as Philippe’s killer.

  I’d seen that dubious look before. In San Francisco, in Portland—where I’d gone to celebrate a friend’s bachelorette party a
nd had wound up running a chocolate-after-dark tour while tracking down a murderer—and in London, too. What was going on?

  Why did this keep happening to me? Why did I, ordinary Hayden Mundy Moore, feel compelled to embroil myself in trouble?

  I ought to leave things to the professionals, I reminded myself as I crossed the room to switch on another lamp. Its glow brightened the walls—covered in delicate fabric, not wallpaper—and threw shadows behind the upholstered twin armchairs. I ought to mourn Philippe, yes, but then leave Saint-Malo for good.

  I ought to . . . but I knew I wouldn’t. The same thing that made me want to find out what was behind a door marked privé drove me to look for answers elsewhere, too. The same tenacity that I applied to my work with chocolate—tracking down solutions even when all seemed hopelessly chalky, dull, or flawed—gave me an edge when looking into a murder, I thought. By now, I recognized that about myself. In fact, I was almost proud of the way I’d managed to persevere during some difficult and unexpected times.

  But this shocking tragedy involving Philippe. . . .

  I had to leave matters with the gendarmes. Didn’t I?

  Even as I thought it, I could almost hear Danny laughing. My best pal knew I wouldn’t be satisfied without answers.

  I picked up my cell phone and dialed. It was late in France. Eight or nine hours earlier in L.A., depending on the season.

  Time zones didn’t matter. Danny answered on the first ring.

  “What’s up?” he asked. “Solve any murders without me?”

  I almost crumpled right then. For a second, I couldn’t speak. I could only gulp air as I gripped my phone. Hard.