Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2)

by A. Gardner

  "I never said you were a horrible person."

  "I'm sure you were thinking it," Cira adds.

  "What happened?" Asking how Sam came to be at the bottom of a cliff with a diamond trinket in his mouth might not be the best idea, but I have to know. I have to make sense of this mess, or it'll drive me crazy.

  "Are you sure you want to know?"

  "We've got time." If she is a murderer, the least I can do is keep her spirits high above her danger zone.

  "Well, they already think you know anyway." She sighs. "Which is why they won't let you go."

  "What makes them think that?" I ask. I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping for more of this mystery to unfold. And most importantly, what the devil's food cake it has to do with me.

  "I don't know. Last time we talked, I was sure I convinced him that you know nothing. Something must have changed."

  "Last time you talked to who?"

  Cira takes another loud breath rather than answering me. I glance around the closet, looking for a blinking red light or some other sign that we're being watched. She stays silent, and it takes all I have to keep my mouth shut. Why is she so scared?

  "Remember how I told you that I quit ballet?" she says instead. "I lied. I was fired. Shunned is more like it. No ballet company will even give me an audition anymore."

  "I've heard a similar version of this story once before," I respond. I take it as a sign of good karma that I never got involved with the Dovingtons in the first place. I must have done something to offend the universe right after that.

  "Sam was handsome, rich…" She pauses. "He knew just what to say to make me feel like his queen."

  "And then he dumped you?"

  "No," Cira argues. "Dumping me would have been the civil thing to do. The Dovingtons are monsters. All of them." Her somber tone grows harsh. "He ran off with someone else. My understudy, of all people. I guess she gave him what he wanted better than I did because suddenly, I was out and she was in. From apprentice to principal just like that. She was given my solo without any explanation."

  "I would've been furious."

  "The worst part was the entire company seemed to figure it out before I did. I was a walking joke for months." Her voice is even harsher, almost like the very thought of Sam sparks a new fire in her belly.

  "I'm sorry, Cira. From what I've heard, it sounds like he did similar things to all the women he slept with. Is that why you killed him?"

  "I got over it after a while." She sniffles. "Got a job as a receptionist. Started over. But then he came back into my life and begged me to come back to him." Her voice quivers as if she's holding back tears. "I did, and…I wish I hadn't."

  I'm afraid to ask what happened next.

  "Repeat offender?"

  "He asked me to come away with him." She stops and tries to keep her composure. At least, what's left of it. "I packed my bags. I took a leave of absence at work. I thought for sure he was going to propose this time. The things he said…I really thought he was going to propose."

  "What happened?" I ask softly.

  "Olivia dropped in, and he made me sneak out the back. The wanker just wanted a mistress. One he could manipulate into doing whatever he wanted in the bedroom."

  "I'm not going to ask what," I comment, "but the kinkiness doesn't surprise me."

  "After that I felt like my whole world fell apart a second time." Cira holds in more tears, but ends up gasping for air instead. She sniffles and buries her head in her hands. I take a few steps closer, unsure if I should console her or let Cira work through these emotions on her own.

  She pulls herself together long enough to finish her story.

  "That's when I was approached by them," Cira continues. "I was a given a job with Mary, I dyed my hair, and I planned the whole thing. I had every intention of killing him, Poppy. They told me all the horrible things he'd done to other women just like me."

  "Who are they?" I ask again.

  "You'll find out soon enough."

  "So is that it?" My eyes dart to the light underneath the door. "Then you killed him?"

  "He wasn't supposed to die that way." She finally breaks out sobbing, and this time I can't stand by and do nothing while she falls to pieces. I sit next to her and steady her shoulders.

  "Relax, Cira. We'll figure this whole thing out." I check the light underneath the door again, hoping to see footsteps. I have to get out of here.

  "It's already been figured out," she says through tears. "It's over. It's all over."

  I have a hard time believing Cira's story. She's light. She's dainty. How did she manage to push Sam over the edge without him taking her down too? Maybe it was an accident? Either way, the woman next to me just confessed to murder, and yet I feel sorry for her.

  "No," I say. "Detective Casey is a reasonable man. He can sort through all this."

  "I don't want to spend my life in prison, Poppy," she replies. She takes a deep breath. "I think I'd rather die."

  There's a thud in the distance, and I quickly bend down to look under the doorway. Footsteps are inching closer. It's time. I jump to my feet—chest drumming. I search through the shelves in front of me, feeling around for something small that will fit into my pocket. Something I can use at an opportune moment.

  I can't find anything but trash bags and a pile of rags.

  "What are you doing?" Cira asks.

  "I can't do nothing," I blurt out.

  "You can't beat these guys." She stands up, preparing for our transport to somewhere new. "I took my chances and ran for it as soon as I got the chance. I knew they'd probably knock me off to cover up their mistake. They found me anyway."

  "I'm sorry about everything," I say, frantically searching. "But unlike you, I'm not ready to die."

  The door opens, and the shelf in front of me is flooded with light. I squint, adjusting to the brightness. I can barely make out the names of the cleaners that I sprinkled along the ledge. I turn around and see the same bald-headed man. He's joined by another hired hand in a suit and of similar stature. They each grab the two of us with ease.

  "Hey!" I shout.

  The bald-headed man forcefully covers my mouth, and I lose my breath. My eyes go glossy as I realize that he could smother me in one swift movement. I have to cooperate.

  "None of that," he barks at me.

  We are dragged back to the dressing room I was thrown in earlier. There's no sign of movement anywhere. I look up and down the hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of an actor coming in for rehearsals. Maybe even a janitor or a stagehand? Places like this don't stay empty for long.

  "Wait here," the bald-headed man instructs, throwing me to the floor. My side crashes into the hard flooring, and I wince from the shock. Pain surges through my spine—like pins and needles are tearing through my skin. Cira touches my arm.

  "Let her go free," she shouts at him. "She's not part of this."

  "She is now." The man chuckles and shuts the door.

  Voices sound through the hallway as Cira attempts to help me up, but my back is failing on me. I let out a yelp as I stand and do my best to straighten it. My muscles go tense, and I try not to dwell on the pain. It's only temporary. It's only temporary.

  My mind games work but not because of me. I'm distracted when the real culprit finally enters the room. I know that face, and I should have pegged it as one of a crazy wedding killer from the beginning. I gulp as he haughtily takes a seat like we're in the midst of a business meeting.

  "Cira," he greets her. "Poppy, nice to see you again. Please, have a seat." Cira helps me to the nearest chair.

  "Mr. Biven," I respond. "I should've guessed it was the father of the bride."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I ask the one thing on the forefront of my mind as Hugo Biven, Olivia's proud and hefty father, stares at me. I add it all up in my head. Sam's exes arriving early for the ceremony. The fight in the garden between Sam and Olivia. Sam's lifeless body near the rocky shore.

  "Are you go
ing to kill me?" I ask. Why dance around the truth?

  "You are a cheeky one, aren't you?" Hugo chuckles—his rounded middle slightly bouncing. "But that's a fair question." He tilts his head and twists his lips to one side as if deciding what to order off the breakfast menu. "I haven't decided yet."

  "She knows nothing," Cira blurts out. "I didn't tell her a thing."

  "I believe you," he answers. "Unfortunately, Poppy has been compromised by other means. Your little friend from the pub."

  "Billie?" I guess.

  "You've seen the headlines lately I take it?" He waits for me to nod. "Billie…" He makes a sour face when he says her name. "…recently had an altercation with my daughter at a nightclub in London. She claimed to know the truth behind Lord Dovington's death, along with loads of others as she put it."

  "Me?" I point to myself, looking from Cira to Hugo. "She never told me anything."

  "You are the croissant girl, are you not?" he asks. I can't deny it. "She claims to have told you everything."

  "So that's why you kidnapped me?" I roll my eyes in frustration. Hugo just cost me ugly bruises and milk chocolate mendiants. All because some woman is trying to make a quick buck from the tabloids. "You think I know who the killer is?"

  "Don't you?" Hugo asks. I bet I can guess.

  "No," I shout. "For the millionth time, no!"

  Cira glances down at the floor. I know there's more to it than her confession. Why else would Hugo go through such great lengths to follow me, have my diamond pendant stolen, and then basically steal me too?

  Why does any semi-normal person go berserk like that?

  Love. Or lack of it.

  My love for Grandma Liz is what carried me through my first semester at Calle Pastry Academy. Cira's love for Sam made her agree to the most sinister things. What's Hugo motive?

  Olivia.

  Memories link in my mind, and my eyes widen with a new connection.

  It was Olivia.

  In between her fight with Sam and the moment I met her in her changing room, something awful happened. A mistake. One that Cira blames herself for, and now she's awaiting her punishment. I think about the storage closet and Cira's excessive use of the word they.

  They approached me.

  Cira said that Sam was already with Olivia when she left her new life behind to join him at Dovington Manor. Olivia must have known all along that her fiancé was a serial womanizer. So she hatched a plan to end his infidelity for good. With the help of her father, the Biven family did what they had to do to ensure Lord Dovington's demise and their innocence. The convinced Cira to do the deed.

  But what went wrong?

  Maybe it was Billie showing up with two other exes with a plan of her own?

  Maybe dying her hair wasn't enough for Cira not to be recognized by the groom?

  Maybe that mysterious chocolate macaroon was meant for someone specific?

  And maybe it was all three?

  "But," Hugo breaks my concentration, "you are starting to figure it out." He studies my expression. I can't hide my mix of emotions. My heart is pounding. I've figured out on my own what the Detectives couldn't, but my side is also pulsing in agony.

  "She's in pain." Cira makes the excuse for me. "Please, just let her go."

  Hugo sighs, clenching his jaw.

  "Ms. Peters," he addresses me. "Sometimes as a parent, you do the best you can to shelter your child from the world but sooner or later it comes knocking. I do what I have to for my daughter."

  "Even murder?"

  Hugo nods.

  "This is why I cannot let you go," he replies. "I have made up my mind. I must cover all tracks."

  "No!" Cira jumps—her entire face cherry red. "No, you can't do this!"

  Hugo stands up to leave. Before he can open the door, the bald-headed man returns. He nods at his boss, clutching something shiny in his hand. Hugo leaves the room without a second glance as his hired hit man prepares to do what has to be done in order to cover up what really happened.

  He's going to kill us.

  Cira runs for the door. She flails her arms, trying to aim for the man's face, but it doesn't work. Hugo is gone, and it's just the three of us in an empty, ill-lit dressing room behind an ancient Parisian theater. There have been times in my life when I've lived for the stage.

  I never thought I would die on it.

  I don't want a cold dressing room and a hysterical Spaniard to be my last memory.

  The bald-headed man pushes Cira away. One rough swing of his arm and she's half way across the room on her back. The man doesn't smirk or bat an eye when he flashes a small hand gun. He aims it at Cira first, and the sight of it makes her freeze like a human glacier.

  Do something! Quick!

  I can't match this man's strength. He will win every time. I have no weapon of my own to do any damage, so that's out. I have to use something else.

  "Wait!" I yell. I have his attention for the next five seconds. "You're going to shoot us and leave us here? Won't that seem even more suspicious?"

  The man pauses to process my comment.

  "You could at least make it look like a mugging," I blurt out.

  "Poppy!" Cira responds. "What are you doing?"

  I'm hoping that this guy's brain isn't as big as his biceps.

  "No talking," he commands us.

  "There are clues all over," I go on. I do my best to steady my voice, but my chest is pounding violently. I can't stop it. "Starting with the cuff link I knicked off you earlier."

  He lowers his gun, looking confused. He won't be able to resist checking his sleeves, and that'll be my window. The only one I have. His gargantuan body is blocking our only way out, but I only need a second to make a break for it. My eyes zero in on the nearest wooden chair. The element of surprise is all I have. I have to use every last bit of it, or I'll be dead in a minute.

  My palms sweat, and my limbs feel tingly. I'm ready to sprint for my life, and I hope Cira follows me. The bald-headed man glances at his wrists, lowering his gun halfway to the floor. As soon as his eyes are fixated elsewhere, I shoot my body forward like a spring, gripping the edge of a chair as tight as I can. I think of the frying pan in Marta's apartment.

  Aim for the head! The head, Poppy!

  The chair crashes against his neck with a giant bang, and it's enough to make him stumble to his knees. A surge of adrenaline bolts through my veins. All I can see is the door. I run for it, feeling like it's miles away.

  I twist the knob.

  It opens.

  Footsteps tap the floor behind me as I sprint into the hallway, suddenly stopping as I look both ways. I kick off my nude heels, ready to take my chances with bare feet. Either end of the corridor looks the same. Cira bumps into me and grabs my hand.

  "This way," she pants, out of breath. "Hurry!"

  The two of us run as fast as our legs will allow. It's barely fast enough. It sounds like the ground is splitting in two behind us. We are being chased. I follow Cira out of the hallway and onto the stage of a dark theater—one large enough to house all of the students of Calle Pastry Academy and then some. Hundreds of tiny lights make the vaulted ceiling sparkle, and a heavenly mural surrounds the largest chandelier I've ever seen. Golden columns run up the walls and outline the viewing booths on both sides of the theater.

  Cira crawls around the orchestra pit and plants her feet in front of the very first row of seats. I catch up to her, and we run as quickly as we can—reaching a short barrier separating the next section of seats from the front. I hop over it, and my entire body jumps as a loud shot pierces the silence.

  We're not alone anymore.

  Cira and I duck as low as we can. We quietly crawl through rows of seats, hiding ourselves from view. I try to control my breathing. It's so loud I can hear myself huffing and puffing. Keeping my mouth shut only makes it worse. Cira stops and covers her mouth. I mimic her and watch the bald-headed man gaze into the theater from center stage. His gun is pointed up at the ceiling.


  "I know you're out there," he shouts. "I'll find you."

  He scans the room once again, but Cira and I remain dead still.

  The man turns and disappears behind stage. I slowly creep closer to the exit, but I come to a halt when the lights flip on. I can clearly see the theater around me, and I'm instantly awestruck. Much like Le Croissant, I feel like I've just stepped back through time. The colorful, hand-painted ceiling. The laced and layered stage curtains that look like they weigh thousands of pounds. It takes me a few glances to realize that they're not curtains at all but one giant, brilliant painting. The detailed crown molding and beautifully carved railings above us. It's a breathtaking place to die.

  Our hunter quickly returns. He starts with the first section, kicking chairs as he combs through seats looking for our hiding spot. I can smell the scent of his aftershave circling through the air. A mixture of sweat and clove. I wonder if he uses it to shine his head.

  "Ay dios mio," Cira mumbles.

  As the bald-headed man gets closer and closer to hopping the wooden railing separating the rest of the theater from the seats up front, I feel frozen. My eyes are wider than coconut macaroons, and every thought in my head floats to the vaulted ceiling.

  What do I do?

  I'm minutes away from facing the ultimate fate. Minutes away from staring death in the face, yet my mind is moving at glacial speeds. The thought of crawling up a row and being seen paralyzes me, but it's my only choice.

  Cira covers her head, molding her body into a round ball. I nudge her, waiting for the bald-headed man to climb over the section break. He lifts his leg, looking down at where he's stepping. I speedily crawl to the section of seats across the theater, moving up a couple of rows. When I stop, Cira bumps into my back.

  It worked.

  The bald-headed man repeats the same process. He kicks random chairs as he skims each row section by section. He smacks the back of each row a little harder when he fails to locate his targets. I watch him carefully from across the theater. He moves to another row, walking in our opposite direction with his back turned.

  I crawl up a row.

  The bald-headed man grunts loudly as he paces down the next aisle. His jaw is clenched, and beads of sweat are forming on his forehead. His cheeks are crimson, and he's glaring down at the floor like he wants to shoot it for being uncooperative. He kicks another chair. This time it makes a loud thud that echoes through the auditorium and makes my heart jump. He turns his back to walk through the next cluster of seats.