“But I wasn’t! I wouldn’t have. This is way off base.”
Usually, my favorite bar-crawling buddy agreed with me about things. I felt uncomfortably off-kilter at that moment.
“Taking over,” Danny repeated, “and expecting Mathieu to be happy about it. Because what it looks like from the other side is some jerk comes in to steal your job and wants to be pals.”
“So I’m the ‘jerk’ in this scenario? No. I was being nice. I felt sorry for Mathieu. We had chocolate in common.” I hauled in a deep breath for patience. “I was investigating, too.”
“Okay, let’s come at this from another angle,” my buddy suggested. “If Easter chocolates are so expensive and critical, the way you told me, then who usually comes up with them?”
Argh. He had me. “The boss. Monsieur made all the designs.”
I got it. Suddenly, it was impossible not to see my interactions with Mathieu Camara in a different light. To him, I was an interloper, not a potential friend. How could I have been so blind? Just because I was secure in my position with my mentor didn’t mean that Philippe’s other trainee felt the same.
“But Mathieu is a skilled chocolatier,” I argued, unwilling to go down without a fight. This discussion felt a lot like the other times Danny had told me I was “too nice” for giving someone the benefit of the doubt. “He had no reason to fear me.”
“Really? There’s a reason Poyet made you that job offer.” Danny’s tone was firm. Proud? “You’re a world-famous, highly sought-after, well-paid chocolate expert. You don’t see how you’re competition to a hard-luck type like Mathieu Camara?”
“But you see everything through the lens of competition.” I didn’t want to be that way. “Just the same way Travis sees everything as an excuse to be logical. That doesn’t make either of your opinions any more valid or more true than mine are.”
“Yeah, it kinda does. Because you’re still too nice.”
There it was. I gritted my teeth and paced to the window.
“You don’t want to see the truth,” Danny insisted. “Not about Philippe and his affairs, not about Nathalie’s real dad, not about Mathieu. You can’t stand that he didn’t like you—”
“Stop right there.” Mathieu did like me. Once. I felt reasonably sure of it, because I’d liked him. “This isn’t about me.”
“Isn’t it? Who else is tracking a murderer and overlooking the single mostly likely person in town to want her dead?”
I imagined Mathieu grabbing me in the château’s dark jardin. Maybe it had been him out there, the other night.
“Mathieu Camara isn’t your friend. He’s an ex-con.”
“Yes? And?” It was my turn for a piercing retort, like Danny’s earlier. “You’re always telling me not to judge people by their pasts, especially not people who’ve been in trouble.”
“In trouble” was code for “in jail,” of course. Like Danny.
“I never meant you should overlook what’s right in front of your face.” He gave a frustrated sound, making the phone speaker crackle. “First, Mathieu needed that job. With his record, work isn’t easy to come by,” my buddy recapped. “Second, you turned up just when the future of the chocolate shop was uncertain—”
“Because of the Poyet-Vetault merger, not me.”
“—and started showing off all your chocolate expertise,” Danny went on. “Expertise Mathieu specifically told you he didn’t want. Then you showed up to gloat about him getting shafted by Fabrice—stood there watching him being ousted.”
“It wasn’t like that! I didn’t know that’s what Fabrice planned to do. He only arrived here a day or two ago.”
“And now you’re surprised Mathieu’s shot you a few dirty looks? I have news for you, Hayden. You’re lucky if he doesn’t try a lot worse. He’s probably the one who killed Philippe. As far as Mathieu knows, your mentor purposely set him up to have his whole life ruined—all so Philippe could rake in a bundle of cash from Poyet. Then you blew into town to pick up the pieces.”
Yikes. That sounded like a motive for murder, even to me.
I winced, feeling blasted by Danny’s pointed outburst. It was true that my longtime pal was ludicrously competitive, but he wasn’t prone to flights of fancy. If he thought there was something here, there probably was. I paced to the fireplace.
I wished I could sink onto my cushy four-poster bed and forget the whole thing. Mathieu, Hélène, Clotilde . . . everyone.
“I didn’t call you to argue,” I said in a conciliatory tone. I didn’t want us to be at odds. Especially not with so much distance separating us. Fortunately, Danny seemed to agree.
“Me either. I’ve had more than the usual amount of time to think,” he admitted in a rough voice. “Being laid up sucks.”
At his aggrieved tone, I sympathized. Then, “You really think Mathieu saw me as competition?” Danny emphatically said that he did. “Because even if that’s true, it doesn’t matter anymore. Not now that he’s unemployed. He quit on his own.”
“Fabrice forced the issue by closing the shop. If you didn’t see that coming, then Mathieu must have been blown away.”
“Not in a good way, either.” I thought about it. There he’d been, working as usual at La Maison des Petits Bonheurs, when Fabrice had turned up to take control of the place. Even though Nathalie’s fiancé had only wanted to close the shop for a few days—out of respect to Monsieur—it had to have been jarring for Mathieu to have been forced out of his home, even temporarily.
Mathieu was pretty sensitive—at least if the tears he’d shed over our mentor’s unexpected death were anything to go by.
On the other hand.... “Travis told me that the Poyets were footing the bill for Mathieu’s hotel room. He looked into it. That’s not what you’d do if you wanted to obliterate Mathieu. It’s all aboveboard. Maybe we’re wrong about a few things.”
“Maybe you’re not thinking clearly. It’s difficult to investigate a murder,” Danny commiserated. I thought of him, immobilized facedown while recuperating, and knew that neither of us had it easy. “Think about it,” he urged. “Mathieu told you he didn’t hear anyone doing that graffiti on the shop, right?”
I nodded. “He said he was sleeping the whole time.”
“How likely is that? Even with those thick stone walls? He had to have heard something going on. Maybe he even did it.”
I held my tongue, reminded of the paint I’d seen the gendarmes carrying out of Clotilde Renouf’s jam shop today. It seemed most probable that she’d made that graffiti. Or that someone wanted the police (and me) to believe that she had.
I couldn’t help suspecting Charlotte Moreau of that.
“But Mathieu seemed so earnest when I met him.” Still reluctant to think the worst of the chocolatier, I paced to the desk where Travis had leaned earlier. I thought I caught a whiff of his spicy aftershave. Mmm. “He gave me a nickname! He wasn’t even mad when he knew who I was, but I didn’t know who he was.” Monsieur did not mention me? Never? Mathieu had looked discomfited, but he hadn’t blamed me. I told Danny as much.
“You see it that way. He probably saw it another way.”
I tried to put myself in my (hypothetical) rival’s shoes. I couldn’t quite get there. “Honestly? I was so busy trying to find out what he knew, I couldn’t pay attention to much else. La Maison des Petits Bonheurs was my first stop in investigating.”
“How do you know he wasn’t investigating you, too?” Danny asked. He never hesitated to tackle the blunt questions. “If I were in his shoes, that’s what I’d be doing—trying to measure up my competition, then figuring out how to take her down.”
“But that’s so mean!” I blurted.
“We’re talking about a potential murderer, remember?” There was familiar humor in my old pal’s voice, though. Thankfully. “You’re both amateurs, so neither of you was good enough at sneaking around to notice what the other one was up to.”
If that was true, we were in good company—right along
with Travis. I could understand better what my financial advisor saw in Mélanie Flamant, now that we’d talked further. They were both analytical, both intelligent, both determinedly straight-arrow.
I no longer wondered why Travis hadn’t extracted more useful information from the policière. I could see now that Travis—knowing he wasn’t skilled at subterfuge, either—had instead focused on building a bridge between Mélanie and me, hoping we would eventually collaborate. He’d succeeded, too.
“Does the chocolate shop have a surveillance system?” Danny broke into my thoughts with one of his typically security-minded questions. “If it does, I’d lay odds there’s footage somewhere of Mathieu Camara chucking your damn photo against the wall.” He gave a low snicker. “Care to make the fifty bucks I owe you for Travis’s golden retriever bet double or nothing? I’m in.”
“I’ll just bet you are. You lost.” I laughed, too, despite everything. I was chilled at the idea of Mathieu hurling away my photo in a rage, though. That didn’t sound . . . healthy. I bit my lip, considering it. “You really think Mathieu resented me?”
Maybe I had reason to be concerned. I trusted Danny.
“You can be pretty insufferable,” my buddy joked.
I couldn’t very well take offense. “There is a crime wave going on in Saint-Malo.” I told him about Mélanie Flamant.
The attack on the policière was unforgivable. Predictably, my security-expert friend immediately agreed with me about that.
“Does she know who did it? Some scumbag she works with?”
“Maybe.” If so, that would leave Mélanie little recourse, I knew. It would be tough to sic the police on the police. I felt sorry for her. “She was walking her dog near the city wall when someone jumped her—someone bigger, taller, and stronger.”
“Police officers make a lot of enemies.”
“Try to sound a little less blasé, will you?”
“Hey, I know you. That’s it. Not Mélanie Flamant, not Mathieu Camara, and not Travis. I want you to be careful.”
“I am being careful. And you don’t need to warn me about Travis.” I sighed. “You might as well give up. I trust him.”
There was a short, fraught silence. Then, “So what’s this nickname Monsieur Chocolate gave you, anyway? You like it?”
It was the closest he’d come to an apology. I appreciated the effort, however minimal. “Chouchou.” For laughs, I put a little extra Frenchiness into it. “Mathieu calls me chouchou.”
“‘Choo-choo’?” Danny mimicked. “Like a train? Weird.”
“No, chouchou, like . . .” I stopped short of scratching my head in bafflement. “I’m not actually sure what it means. Maybe I’ll ask Mélanie the next time I see her. We’re getting together tomorrow to discuss the case. I think she’s doling out info to me slowly, in case I turn out to be slightly less trustworthy than Travis says I am. I’m lucky he vouched for me at all.”
Danny’s response to that was a surly mumble. I guessed all wasn’t quite simpatico with the two of them—at least not yet.
“Whatever you do, watch out for Mathieu,” he advised after a few moments’ thought. “He’s not going to be placated by a few nights in a cheap hotel. He’s out a job and a place to live.”
“Maybe I could hook him up with one of my former chocolate consultees? I’ve worked in France before. I know people who might be able to help him.” Despite his criminal record, I added to myself. “Provided he’s not a killer, of course.”
“Of course. Help the guy who thinks he has you to blame for all his troubles.” Danny sounded exasperated. “What was I just saying about you being too nice? Mathieu might be out for revenge. If he’s already whacked your mentor because of this—”
“Because of me, you mean?” Gulp. “Danny, be serious.”
“I’m being deadly serious. If Mathieu killed Philippe because he wanted to squash the merger, or because he knew his boss was planning on replacing him—maybe with you—after the Poyet thing went down, then he won’t hesitate to come after you now. Logically, you’re next on his list.” Only Danny used a much coarser term than that for Mathieu’s “list.” “Think about it.”
I didn’t want to. It was pretty frightening. But I had to.
“Logically, it’s all coming to a head,” Danny pushed. “Now, Mathieu has nothing left to lose. That makes him dangerous.”
My buddy was right. Fabrice’s closure of the shop could have been just the inducement Mathieu needed to take action.
Just the inducement Mathieu needed to kill. Maybe again.
Reminded of what had happened to Clotilde Renouf today, I told Danny more about the situation. We brainstormed for a while, but as far as we could discern, the jam maker had had no real connection to the chocolatier. Yes, Clotilde had wanted Monsieur’s real estate for herself, but aside from that, her life hadn’t overlapped much with Mathieu’s. There was no motive.
That meant that if Clotilde had been murdered—and hadn’t simply fallen to her death unintentionally—it probably hadn’t been Mathieu Camera who’d done it. The realization was a lot less comforting than it might have been. Were there two murderers on the loose in friendly, picturesque Saint-Malo?
“So, still no luck on the murder weapon?” Danny broke in.
“Not really.” I’d already told him that Mathieu Camara had (staunchly) denied using the implement. “I’m still hoping Mélanie will tell me she has fingerprints. I’m planning to look into other local chocolatiers, just in case, but so far, the chocolate chipper isn’t just a useless tool—it’s a dead end.”
“How many chocolatiers had booths at the Fest-Noz thing? That would be someplace to start—with people who were already there and already had the tool. Proximity means a lot.” I heard a macabre smile in Danny’s voice. “You’d be surprised how lazy criminals can be. As a rule, they’re not really go-getters.”
I grinned. “Hmm. I know someone who breaks that rule.”
I meant him. Former him, at least, before he’d gone straight, turned his life around, and earned two degrees.
“Really? Sounds like an annoying twerp to me.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Travis you said so.” He’d like that.
“You wouldn’t.” A pause. “So how about that bet?”
I recalled it. “A hundred bucks says Mathieu smashed my picture on purpose? Nah. I don’t even know how you’d prove it.”
Our original bet had been for five dollars. That should tell you how many times the two of us had let it double down.
“I know how you’d prove it.”
With the shop’s security-camera coverage, I presumed.
My smile broadened. “You’d have a hard time finagling that footage without being here in person.” I knew how he worked. “I’m guessing it’s tough to work your magic over the phone?”
“Oh yeah?” His voice deepened. “Is that a challenge?”
I knew better than to dare him. At least I should have.
I waved to Lucas Levebre from the window. He seemed to be finished filming videos for the day. “So what if it is?”
“Game on.” Danny sounded intrigued (as usual) by any challenge. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“All right, you do that.” I wasn’t afraid of Danny and his unorthodox methods. Not when he was on my side—and he always was. “In the meantime, I’ve got a wine tasting to attend.”
And a French pop star to meet up with, I added to myself as Lucas gave me a long-distance mamba from the château’s grounds.
All this talk about murder, motives, and people who (might) want to see me dead (preferably within the next several hours) had left me seriously spooked. For a few minutes, at least, I needed a little R & R—and I knew just the place to get it.
Seventeen
My just-for-fun interlude with Lucas Lefebvre was short lived, but it was just what I needed to recharge my batteries before kicking my investigation into my mentor’s death into high gear. I spent the rest of that night c
oaxing Hélène into giving me a tour of the château’s private spaces, including the attic, where I didn’t see much beyond boxed-up mementos, dusty artwork (dark and depressing, if you asked me), and spiders (shudder!).
Ultimately, I didn’t have the heart to spend much more than an hour or so with the despondent, wine-quaffing châtelaine. It was just too heartrending to see Hélène scurry from room to room in her luxurious home, chatting in a frenzied way about items that used to be here or had been moved there or had otherwise (according to Hélène) gone missing. It seemed evident that Philippe’s death had pushed his widow over the brink somehow.
I wasn’t even sure that Hélène remembered who I was.
“The making of an insanity plea?” I asked Travis, unsure if the French courts allowed such a defense in a murder case.
My financial advisor promised to find out, leaving me with the memory of Hélène nearly weeping as she looked behind a credenza and didn’t find whatever she’d been searching for.
She howled about having to find it no matter what. I did my best to comfort her, then vowed not to repeat that experience anytime soon. The next day, I slipped out to watch Hubert gardening. Despite my concerns about Mathieu, Hélène, and even Charlotte and/or Fabrice being motivated to murder Monsieur, several signs still pointed to the bloody-handed man I’d actually seen holding the weapon that had killed my mentor.
To me, Hubert seemed terrifyingly adept with sharp tools. He hefted them with ease, too, despite his advancing years. While I loitered around the jardin, pretending to admire the plants and vines and orderly paths, Philippe’s old friend (and Nathalie’s potential birth father) sharpened his cutters and whacked down errant tree branches. At one particularly chilling moment, the gardener-turned-unlikely-B&B-owner turned up his pruner, tested the lethal blade with his thumb, and nodded with evident satisfaction. The notion of him having done the same with that deadly chocolate chipper left me nauseated and cold.
I had to find out who’d killed Philippe Vetault, and I had to do it very soon. But even when I forced myself to return to Antiquités Moreau and try to mend fences with Charlotte Moreau, I didn’t seem to make as much progress as I needed to.
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