Dead and Ganache

by Colette London

  Then, an instant later, he had me. He grabbed me. “I am afraid that the stairs here are very slippery.” He pulled me by the elbow toward the edge of the landing. From there, it was a long way down to the château’s ornate entryway. “I will be very sad when you fall. We could have had fun together in Paris.”

  I pushed back, but he was too strong for me. Sure, I’m able to heft heavy bags of cacao beans and tote my own luggage, but this was different. When push came to shove, I was helpless.

  We struggled, grunting and scuffling on the landing. The château’s baroque furnishings swung wildly in my vision. I wanted to scream for help, but I didn’t have the breath for it.

  Fabrice jammed his arm around my throat. I saw stars.

  Heart pounding, I twisted. I still couldn’t get free. I wasn’t in position for anything else, so I kicked backward. My sneaker connected with Fabrice’s shinbone. He yelped in French.

  Thankfully, his grasp loosened just enough. I went limp in his arms, forcing Fabrice to drop me in a heap. I landed with an oof!, painfully bashing my hands and knees on the ancient stone.

  Fabrice wasn’t so lucky. He lost his balance on the top step and fell. I looked up just as he plummeted. Philippe’s killer didn’t pinwheel his arms for a few dramatic seconds. He didn’t swear to get revenge on me. He didn’t even cry out.

  He just fell. But the sound his head made on the stone would haunt me forever, I knew. I didn’t want to look, but I had to make sure he wouldn’t reach up and drag me down with him.

  Wild with adrenaline and fear, I crawled to the edge of the landing. My arms wobbled, barely able to support me as I peeked.

  I should have known someone as evil as Fabrice Poyet was too strong to be killed so easily. He was waking up, dazedly, as policière Mélanie Flamant and her colleagues slapped on cuffs.

  My mentor’s killer would obviously live to stand trial for his murder. I guessed that was justice—the best I could get.

  A few seconds later, Travis was there. He climbed past the official gendarme hubbub and crouched beside me with concern.

  “It’s bad enough you’re investigating murders as a hobby,” my financial advisor told me in his deep, seductive growl. “You probably shouldn’t start committing them yourself now, too.”

  His reference to Fabrice’s fall made me laugh. Weakly.

  “That wasn’t my intention.” I grabbed Travis’s arm, intent on getting to my feet. Whoops. I swayed, still too amped to support myself. But Travis had me. “What took you so long?”

  “Well . . .” My keeper looked hesitant, but he came through in the end. “You seemed pretty close to extracting a confession. Mélanie hung back on purpose for a few minutes, just in case.”

  I shook my head with disbelief. “No wonder her coworkers are mad at her,” I joked. “She could have gotten me killed.”

  “I wouldn’t have let that happen. I was ready to charge up there myself and rescue you. Mélanie had to have me restrained.”

  I chuckled, then realized he was serious. “Really?”

  “She’s smart. She didn’t want me to risk the case.”

  “No, I mean . . . really? You wanted to save me that much?”

  Travis looked abashed. He nodded. “Sometimes you’re—”

  “Too nice?” I interrupted. “Stupidly softhearted?”

  “No.” My keeper’s gaze settled on me. Affectionately. “I mean, yes, you’re both of those things sometimes. But also—”

  “Full of procrastination? Annoyingly antsy?”

  “Brave,” Travis said at last. “Really, really brave.” He hugged me close—possibly to keep me from witnessing the emotion I heard in his husky voice. “You saved the day, Hayden.”

  Below us, the gendarmes were dealing expertly with Fabrice.

  “That is correct,” Mélanie agreed. She was busy arresting Monsieur’s killer, but she was close enough to have overheard us. “Madame Farges has given a statement. Travis told me about the film footage. We already had bank records showing that Monsieur Poyet stayed in a hotel close by in Dinard on the night Monsieur Vetault was killed.” The policière’s attention rested on my financial advisor for an instant, letting me know that those records had likely come from him. “But without your delaying Monsieur Poyet, he might still have gotten away.” She nodded. “Very well done.”

  Even woozy and wired, I managed to smile. I was glad it was over. But I had another question. “Did you get Mathieu Camara?”

  Mélanie nodded. “Monsieur Camara will be going back to jail.”

  “Then he won’t be able to hurt either of us anymore.” I looked at the policiere’s head, where she still sported her white knit hat. Mine was packed. I was sorely tempted to toss it, but I couldn’t. It was a reminder of all we’d accomplished.

  For Monsieur, I’d wear it proudly. And I’d remember him.

  “If you need me, I’ll be happy to give a statement or anything else,” I told Mélanie, watching as more officers arrived to treat Fabrice’s injuries. I wanted him able to stand trial—to go to jail forever. “In the meantime, there’s something else I have to do.” I gestured to Travis. “Come on, tough guy. You’re just the man I need for this job.”

  Twenty-one

  It took my sultry-voiced financial advisor a while to comb through all the details. But in the end, he emerged triumphant.

  I’d known he would, but his success warmed my heart anyway—possibly because of how pleased with himself Travis looked as we handed the resulting (necessary) documentation to Hélène Vetault and Nathalie. The two of them stood united in front of La Maison des Petits Bonheurs a few days after Fabrice Poyet had been arrested, charged, and booked into jail for Monsieur’s murder.

  According to Mélanie, a conviction and lengthy sentence were all but guaranteed. She had everything she needed to make certain of that. “Partly thanks to you,” she’d assured me.

  I didn’t know about that. But I knew that—for the sake of patrimoine, justice, and everyone who loved delicious treats—my mentor’s chocolaterie had to reopen. That’s why we were there.

  It had taken a diligent effort to unravel the canceled Poyet-Vetault merger, examine Philippe’s will and other personal papers, and make all the correct decisions. But Travis did it.

  He was different from Danny, that was true. He was different from me. But he was uniquely helpful and dedicated.

  He handed the chocolaterie’s keys to Hélène and the attendant ownership documents to Nathalie. They accepted both.

  “Monsieur would have wanted you to have the shop,” I told them sincerely as we all stood gazing at its charming exterior. “I hope you’ll be able to reopen very soon. I can suggest a few chocolatiers with the relevant experience and expertise.”

  Three pointed gazes swung straight to me. I balked.

  “Who aren’t me,” I hurried to add, “even though I wish I could stay.” I was tempted. If I didn’t leave Brittany, maybe I wouldn’t run into another homicide. I could hope, couldn’t I? “I’m afraid I can’t do that, though. I need to get home.”

  Home. I couldn’t miss Travis’s questioning look. He knew as well as I did that I didn’t have one of those. Not really.

  Maybe someday. Moving on . . . “Although I have been pretty busy over the past few days.” I’d worked through my grief and trauma by pouring all my energies into making chocolate in Monsieur’s barn-atelier, creating from dawn to dusk, stopping only to attend Philippe’s poignant memorial service. “I think I’ve left you with enough inventory to last until you hire someone.”

  Hélène nodded, clear-eyed and sober. Her drinking had been a trick—a tactic designed to prevent Fabrice from leaving before someone could prove he’d killed her husband. The châtelaine hadn’t been able to find that proof herself—not even with Hubert trying to help—but her future son-in-law’s intense interest in the painting had tipped her off that something was amiss.

  For her daughter’s sake, Hélène had done her best, moving things around
the château in the middle of the night and then pretending not to be able to find them the next day. We could only assume that Philippe had accidentally kicked off the idea by hiding the painting until he could have it expertly assessed.

  For Nathalie’s part, she’d been understandably devastated by her fiancé’s heinous act. She hadn’t been entirely surprised, though, having had her own misgivings about Fabrice’s behavior.

  “When he refused to attend Papa’s memorial, that was the end,” my French friend had told me. “I was through with him.”

  There in front of La Maison des Petits Bonheurs, Travis put together his hands. He regarded the two Frenchwomen we’d come to know so much better over the past several days. He smiled.

  “Has Madame Moreau contacted you regarding the auction?”

  The painting had indeed been a lost Caravaggio, estimated to be worth more than fifty million euros. The Vetaults had unwittingly preserved it as a family heirloom for centuries without knowing its true value. Charlotte Moreau had been beside herself when she’d finally seen and authenticated it herself.

  I, of course, had been busy apologizing for doubting her claim that Fabrice Poyet had pawed her against her will.

  Hélène nodded. “She believes it will do well at auction.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?” I asked.

  “Very sure.” It was Nathalie’s turn to nod. “Papa intended to sell that painting. Madame Moreau confirmed as much. He’d told her he wanted to assure the château’s future before leaving Saint-Malo.” Her mournful gaze lowered to the chocolaterie key in her hand, then lifted to her mother’s face. She smiled. “He knew the B&B was struggling. He had lost hope of reconciling with Maman, but he wanted to leave her with one final gift.”

  That was the generous Monsieur I knew. I raised my brows at Philippe’s widow. “What does Monsieur Bernard think of all this?”

  “Hubert understands,” Hélène told me. “At one time, our partnership was . . . more, but it has waned. We are now joined only by business. That is enough.” She gave me the ghost of a smile. “Some things are most desirable when forbidden, n’est-ce pas?”

  I knew she meant her forbidden amour with Hubert, but I didn’t want to linger on the past. “Forbidden, like chocolate?”

  In demonstration, I raised the boxes of molded chocolat I’d brought with me. Travis and the two Vetaults laughed happily.

  “Oui, c’est ça,” Nathalie agreed. Yes, that’s right.

  I couldn’t help wondering what she thought about Hubert Bernard. Were the rumors true? Was the gardener really her birth father? Most likely, Travis and I would never know for certain.

  I supposed I’d have to be all right with that. Together, we’d captured a killer—with the help of Danny’s far-flung assistance, of course. That meant it was now time to move on.

  We said our good-byes to Hélène and Nathalie. We even exchanged warm bises. Then I took a lingering look at the chocolaterie. This was where I’d learned my craft. With Monsieur by my side, I’d discovered something wonderful about myself.

  I’d learned something amazing about the world that summer, too. I’d learned that it could always be made more delicious.

  Feeling sentimental, I turned away. But Travis saw me.

  He always did, didn’t he? Even (somehow) long-distance. That was why he’d conquered his fear of flying to be with me.

  Companionably, my financial advisor slung his arm over my shoulders. “Cheer up, Hayden. You can always visit later.” He smiled at me as we made our way through the winding cobblestone streets of the vieille ville (old village). “Maybe you can convince Hélène and Nathalie to begin a chocolatier-in-residence program for you.”

  I appreciated his efforts. However . . . “Don’t try to sweet-talk me now. I’m still mad at you.” I cornered him near a café. “What did you tell Fabrice that day? He wouldn’t get off me!”

  I shuddered, remembering Monsieur Poyet’s groping and leering.

  “Well . . .” Travis bought time by eyeing a tray of pastries being brought out from the café’s kitchen. His sweet tooth was no excuse, though. “You know that Poyet is a public company?”

  “This isn’t the time for a lesson in corporate structure.”

  “That means that Fabrice Poyet might have been in charge of certain things, but he had a board of directors to satisfy.”

  His explanation was rapidly devolving into boredom central. Plus, those pastries did look pretty tasty. Yum. “So?”

  “So, Monsieur Poyet had had multiple sexual harassment claims filed against him over the years, several still pending. He’d gotten to be a serious problem for the company. If not for the promising Vetault-Poyet merger keeping his career alive, he’d already have been ousted for his sexist, predatory behavior.”

  “Sounds like him.” That meant that Fabrice wouldn’t only be criminally prosecuted—he would likely lose a huge chunk of his personal fortune, too. “Which means you said to him that . . . ?”

  It had been in French. If not, I’d have already known.

  “I told him you were hot-to-trot for him,” Travis confessed eventually, speaking quickly. “Not in so many words, of course. As you know, most colloquialisms don’t translate precisely.”

  “Travis!” I swatted him. “How could you?”

  “I knew he’d go for it. He was just that arrogant,” my financial advisor explained. “We needed him to go with you.”

  “So you pimped me out to a killer?” I gawked at him, then drew in an indignant breath. “Danny would never—” I began.

  I stopped abruptly. Then I studied Travis more closely.

  Actually, Danny might do something like this. That meant . . .

  “The two of you have been collaborating again, haven’t you?” I demanded to know. “That ‘hot-to-trot’ thing was his idea, right?” I smacked my forehead, incredulous that I hadn’t realized it before. “If you two aren’t sworn enemies anymore—”

  “Then we can do a more efficient job of helping you.”

  At Travis’s enthusiastic tone, I shook my head. This could only mean one thing. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

  They both knew so much about me—but from vastly different angles. Between my sexy-voiced financial advisor and my rough-and-ready security expert, I’d never know a moment’s peace.

  I moaned as much to Travis. He had the audacity to laugh.

  “It’s going to be fine,” he said. “The enforcer isn’t so bad.” His grin broadened. “Not once you get to know him better.”

  I envisioned “the enforcer” and “Harvard” teaming up to “keep me safe” on some future amateur murder investigation.

  I groaned again at the implications. They might think they could work together amicably, but I knew better. I knew it.

  There was only one thing to say. “No big deal,” I told Travis blithely as I reached for my phone to confront Danny. I didn’t care how drastic the time difference was. We needed to have this out. “It’s a good thing I won’t be needing your help anymore, since I’m finished with all this sleuthing stuff.”

  My call to Danny rang and rang while I glared at my financial advisor. He appeared completely unaffected by my concerns.

  “You don’t really believe you won’t run into another murder, do you?” Travis inquired. “Statistically speaking, it’s unlikely. However, since you’re already a statistical anomaly—”

  I’d been wrong. There were two things left to say.

  Especially if Travis was going to lecture me about statistics. Ugh. I like my math confined to baking. That’s it.

  I spied the café’s waiter passing by with those sugary, scrumptious pastries. I raised my hand and beckoned him over.

  “Oui, Madame?” he asked. “Vous désirez?”

  Roughly: yes, miss? What would you like?

  I could think of several things I wanted just then. Peace. Quiet. The freedom to snuggle up with a golden retriever of my very own. But I settled on the one
thing I knew would satisfy me most.

  “Oui, merci,” I said. “Avez-vous du chocolat?”

  You’ve probably already guessed the translation.

  I needed some chocolate, and I needed it fast.

  Recipes

  FRENCH YOGURT CAKE

  (with chocolate)

  1 container yogurt

  2 containers all-purpose flour

  1 container granulated sugar

  2 eggs

  1½ teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  ½ container vegetable oil

  1 container chocolate chips

  GET READY: Preheat oven to 350° and have ready a medium-size, greased loaf pan.

  MAKE CAKE: Empty yogurt into a medium-size mixing bowl. Rinse and dry the yogurt cup, then use it to measure the remaining ingredients. Add everything to the mixing bowl except oil.

  Mix well, smoothing out any lumps with a whisk. Add vegetable oil; whisk till combined. Stir in chocolate chips.

  BAKE CAKE: Pour batter into loaf pan. Bake for 25-30 minutes, until cake is light golden brown and a toothpick inserted just off center comes out clean. Let cool for 10 minutes, then remove from pan and let cool completely. Slice and enjoy!

  Notes from Hayden

  In France, easy yogurt cakes like this one are a popular children’s goûter (snack), but you don’t have to be a gamin (kid) to appreciate a cake that doesn’t even require measuring cups! Just use your yogurt container to measure, and voilà!

  This recipe works no matter what size yogurt container you use, since the ingredient proportions remain the same (although you might need to adjust baking times). Don’t use nonfat yogurt or yogurt containing gums and thickeners—best results come from using delicious, creamy, full-fat French-style yogurt!

  MICROWAVE CHOCOLATE CAKE FOR ONE (for Danny)