“That’s what I thought,” Gibbons said as he hitched up his pants. “Gas line leak. Not an elaborate murder plot. Now if you’ll excuse me, Penn, I have a murder to investigate.”
“Wait. Wait.” I chased after him as he hurried through the house. “I thought you were going to have someone come and look at the grill. Jody’s not an expert. Someone might have tampered with it.”
Gibbons stopped to listen to me. Or perhaps he stopped to enjoy the blasting AC that made the house feel like the inside of a refrigerator. He looked at me in his fatherly way, then sighed. “I’ll send someone over.”
“Don’t you need to leave an officer here to make sure no one tampers with it? Jody is going to have a cleaning crew dispose of the grill.” And I knew darn well that Jody wouldn’t cancel the cleaning crew from coming and hauling the grill away just because I asked her to.
His mouth twisted into a funny grimace. “Will my agreeing to do this keep you from investigating on your own?”
“I can’t imagine why I’d have to poke around and ask the same questions the police are asking, do you?”
He eyed me curiously before retrieving his cell phone from his suit pocket. While he dialed, he marched back to the deck and barked, “Don’t touch the grill. It’s a crime scene. I’ll have an officer here in a minute to secure the area.”
Chapter 13
When we returned to the shop, I saw something that had me unbuckling my seatbelt even before Bertie parked. The Chocolate Box was crowded. A line, a freaking line, snaked out the door. I checked my watch. One o’clock. Not one of our usual busy times.
Heck, even during our busiest times of day, lines never got even close to the door.
As Bertie eased her car the size of a boat into a narrow parking space reserved for residents of the building, I kicked the rusty passenger door until it flew open.
I looked at Bertie. She looked at me.
We both looked horrified.
For one thing, we were going to run out of inventory. For another, I’d left Althea working the counter with no backup. Not to mention that when I’d left, the phone had been ringing off the hook from unhappy ticket-holders demanding refunds.
A knot of dread twisted in my stomach. “These aren’t customers. They’re here about the festival. I bet they want their money back. But we spent the ticket money to pay the bands. Where is Bubba? I need his help figuring out what to do.”
“Penn, I wish I knew where that man went.” Bertie put her hand on my shoulder. “But remember you’re not alone in this. I’ll stand by you. Althea will too.”
I took a deep breath and walked into the shop. Many of the people in the line grumbled at us, insisting we get to the back of the line.
“We work here,” Bertie declared. That quieted the complainers quickly enough.
Inside, we found Althea working the counter, filling bags, taking money. Her hair had fallen from its clips. Beads of sweat had made her brow glow. She looked up, saw us, and nearly fell over with relief.
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
“Why didn’t you call?” I demanded at about the same time.
“When would I have gotten the chance?” I noticed then that she’d taken the phone off the hook. The display cases were nearly empty.
That’s when it hit me. These weren’t unhappy ticket-holders. These were bona fide customers.
“You help out in the front,” Bertie said as she slipped on an apron and headed toward the back rooms to search for more truffles, bonbons, and chocolate bars.
“What’s going on?” I asked Althea as I hurried around the counter to take her place.
“It’s the price of fame,” she said as she handed a white bag to the smiling woman on the other side of the counter. The woman then leaned across the counter and snapped a cell phone picture of herself and Althea. “About an hour ago Bixby posted a picture of a box of your truffles on Instagram.”
“I did put a pretty red box of assorted truffles from the shop in his beach rental as a welcome gift,” I said. “He must have taken a picture of it.”
I looked at the people standing in line again and then at the crowd loitering in the shop. Phones were out. Everyone seemed to be taking either pictures or videos of themselves and the shop.
Nearly everyone crowding into the shop was female. While the crowd was young—most looked to be in their teens or twenties—I was surprised at how many women in the crowd sported silver hair. Nearly all the women from the Pink Pelican Inn had come.
These were Bixby’s fans?
Could one of them be the rock-throwing super-fan who wanted to set Bixby on fire? Did one of these women standing patiently in the line kill Stan because she thought he was Bixby?
“Could you stop gaping at your success and help?” Althea nudged me with her shoulder.
The two of us diligently worked the front while Bertie shuttled out every bit of chocolate she could find in the back. About an hour into the chaos, Bertie emerged empty-handed.
“That’s everything,” she said as she wiped her hands on a towel. She then stepped around the counter and said in a booming voice, “Sorry folks, you’ve snapped up even the smallest of crumbs today. Come back tomorrow and I promise we’ll have a new batch of delicious treats for you to taste. You’ll have to forgive us for closing early, but we have quite a bit of work to do in the kitchens.”
Despite the grumbles from the customers who hadn’t gotten to buy anything, Bertie—using her Southern charm mixed with a heavy dose of stern schoolmarm demeanor—easily ushered everyone out the door and locked it behind her.
“Wow,” Althea said as she collapsed into the closest chair.
“Wow,” I said, sinking into the chair next to hers.
“A picture on social media did this?” Bertie asked, shaking her head.
Althea started to explain to her mother what social media was. Bertie held up her hand. “Child of mine, you don’t need to preach to me. I may be old, but I’m not stupid. I have an Instagram account.”
Althea looked taken aback. “You do?”
“Don’t you?” Bertie asked. She then tossed each of us an apron. “If we hope to have any inventory to sell tomorrow, we’d better get to work.”
Bertie headed to the back.
“My mom is on Instagram?” Althea said as she tied her apron strings. “What do you think she’s posting?”
I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t have an answer to that question (although I didn’t). All of my attention was focused on a woman lingering in front of the locked shop. She had a large camera hanging around her neck. Wasn’t she the same woman who’d bought a small bag of chocolates from the shop just this morning? The one who’d been asking questions about the murder? Why would she come back?
“Penn?” Althea tugged on the apron still dangling from my fingers. “If we don’t show up in the kitchen soon, Mama is going to come looking for us. And she won’t be happy about it.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” I pushed the apron into Althea’s arms and rushed to unlock the door. Ignoring the detective’s earlier admonition to stay out of the investigation, I stepped outside to talk with the woman.
Calling Gibbons would be pointless. For one thing, he clearly didn’t believe my theory that the killer had only accidentally killed Stan. Instead of questioning Bixby’s fans, the entire homicide department seemed focused on Bubba’s disappearance—as if disappearing at the wrong moment proved guilt.
Another reason calling Gibbons would get me nowhere was simply that I didn’t know the woman’s name or anything about her. All I knew was that she’d come to the shop twice and was hanging around now when all the other customers had left. By the time the detective could get here, she’d be gone. And even if she was still hanging out in front of the shop, what would he say to her? Would he walk up to her and say, “Excuse me, but the shop owner has issued a complaint that you’ve shopped in her store too often today?” That would be ridiculous.
&nb
sp; No, this was something I needed to do. I wasn’t investigating per se. I only planned to ask a few questions … just to set my own mind at ease.
I stepped outside. A pair of twisting scrubby oak trees that had to be as old as the Chocolate Box’s hundred-year-old building provided shade and cool relief from the summer sun.
“Hello,” I said. I then pointed to the bag of chocolates the woman grasped in her hand. “Is there something wrong with them?”
She jumped. “Oh! I didn’t see you there.”
She was a pretty girl. Perhaps in her early twenties. Her long hair, the color of honey, had been styled in an elaborate twisting updo. Her large blue eyes blinked at me. She hugged the bag of chocolates to her chest like it was a shield, surely squishing the truffles and bonbons that Bertie and I had painstakingly made. I winced.
“Is there something wrong with the chocolates?” I asked again.
She looked at the bag as if she’d just noticed she’d been holding it. “These? No. No. They’re fine. Well, I’m sure they are. I haven’t actually eaten any.” She looked me up and down. “I need to watch my weight, you know?”
My hips had grown considerably wider since I’d taken over the shop, but I tried not to take her comment personally. “Well, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. I’m Penn, the owner of the Chocolate Box.”
“Hiya, I’m Candy.” We shook hands. Hers was slender and baby-soft.
“Candy.” No last name? I supposed I couldn’t complain since I went by only one name myself. “You must really love chocolate. Isn’t this your second trip to buy chocolates today?”
“Oh, these aren’t for me.” She looked down the road as if expecting someone to appear. A few cars rolled by. A family pulling a wagon filled with towels and beach toys rambled passed. She frowned as she watched them. “They’re for a friend. I don’t know where he is. He should have been here by now.”
“Do you need to borrow my phone?” I offered.
She produced a cell phone from the back pocket of her cut-off jeans. “Thanks. Got my own.”
She didn’t have the long, slow drawl that marked most residents as island residents. Her clipped way of talking sounded more Western. Could she be from California? That’s where Bixby was living these days.
“Are you on vacation here? Or have you come specifically for the concerts?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m here to listen to Bixby sing. His voice is divine. Don’t you think so? It’s deee-vine.”
So it was just as I’d suspected. She was a fan girl. Had she followed Bixby to Camellia Beach? Was she one of his “crazies”? Was she someone who liked to throw rocks?
I didn’t have enough information to either think she was a suspect or rule out any wrongdoing on her part. I doubted she’d tell me the truth if I asked outright. And since I wasn’t a professional investigator (I wondered if there was a class for that), I wasn’t sure what probing question to ask next. In hindsight, the question I ended up lobbing at her created more problems for me in the long run.
“You’re waiting for him right now, aren’t you?” I tried to sound kind.
Her lips moved slowly as they formed a sly smile. “He told me he likes coming here.”
“He told you …? Oh, you mean the picture he posted on social media this afternoon?”
“He has to be careful, you know?” She whispered the next part. “I shouldn’t tell you this. But he can’t just call me. People wouldn’t understand our relationship. His fans expect him to be single … available, you know? He can’t let them know that he’s in love … with me.”
I nodded.
“I bet he came and saw the crowds and left,” she said, still crushing the bag of chocolates to her chest. “Your place is always too crowded. He’s going to have to pick a better location for us to meet.”
I nodded again.
“You don’t believe me.” Her loud voice startled a flock of pigeons that had landed in the oak beside the door.
I held up my hands. “I have no reason to question anything you’re saying.”
Other than the fact that he kissed me yesterday, a bitter voice in my head added.
He also kissed and flirted with Jody, my vicious mind countered.
Her large doe eyes narrowed. “Don’t patronize me. I know you think he’s attracted to you. He kisses everyone, you know?” she said, eerily echoing my own thoughts. “He has to. It’s part of his act. He has to pretend to be someone he’s not. He has to pretend he’s not in love with me.”
“That’s got to be hard,” I said. “Why do you put up with it?”
She huffed as if I’d just asked the stupidest question ever. “Because I love him and this is the only way we can be together.” She looked down the road again. “The crowds scared him off. And I really needed to see him. I have something I need to tell him.”
“I could give him your message,” I suggested. Another mistake.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep away from my man,” she growled, then sidled down the road like a petulant raccoon.
As I watched her go, I wished I had heeded Detective Gibbons’s advice to keep my nose out of police business. Talking with Candy had been a mistake. I prayed it wouldn’t turn out to be a fatal one.
Chapter 14
While I took Stella out for a quick walk, I called Detective Gibbons to report my run-in with Candy and her obsession with Bixby. Luckily, I got his voicemail, which meant I could tell him what happened with Candy without having to listen to his scolding. At least not right away.
I then called Granny Mae. When I was a child, she’d worked as Grandmother Cristobel’s personal assistant and often served as a surrogate mother. As an adult, I’d lived with her in Madison, Wisconsin, for several years, moving out only after I’d inherited this shop. She was the smartest woman I knew, which was why I was calling her. The call went to her voicemail.
She was teaching summer session at the university as well as taking several classes just for the joy of it. I still hadn’t memorized her schedule. The message I left for her was short, just asking her to return my call. I didn’t want her to worry.
Stella tugged on the end of the leash and barked, signaling that she wanted to get back to the air-conditioned apartment. While my little dog loved romping around in the cold and snow, she seemed to hate the heat. The warmer the temperature grew, the shorter her walks became.
Today, I didn’t insist on a longer walk. I had work to do. She led the way back to the apartment. As soon as I unsnapped her leash, she growled at Troubadour, Bertie’s cat, and then bounded off into my bedroom, where I kept the ridiculously frilly dog bed I’d bought her because—oh, heck, I’d bought it because I’d lost my mind when it came to my little dog. I was constantly buying her over-the-top presents.
When I finally got back to the shop, I saw that Althea had left my apron carefully folded on the top of the glass display case next to a stack of messages. Not quite ready to head into the kitchen yet—my confidence still felt shaky after my last bonbon disaster—I started sorting through the messages. They were mainly from unhappy ticket-holders. Althea had noted on the top of almost all the pink message papers that she’d already taken care of the issue. One message, however, jumped out at me. I read it through, twice.
Florence Corners had called the shop looking for me. The message was similar to the one her brother’s law office had sent to Harley. She wanted to talk with me.
My knee-jerk response was to toss the pink slip of paper. Why should I agree to talk with any of them? Florence, Edward, and Peach communicated with me only through terse legal briefs sent to Harley. But what if this was the olive branch I’d been hoping for?
All I wanted was to find my mother. All they wanted was this building. They denied that the first DNA test had any validity. They denied that I was a relation. They denied requests for face-to-face interaction.
As much as I wanted to punish them for the way they’d treated me, I needed them. They were m
y family. And I needed their DNA to prove it.
So I picked up the phone and dialed, not the number Florence had left for me but another number altogether.
“Harley.” I took a deep breath. He patiently waited on the other end of the line. “Tell Florence I’ll meet with her.”
* * *
Bertie, Althea, and I worked in the kitchen, mainly making truffles. Bertie was an artist when it came to decorating them. She guided my hand as I painted gold dust across the tops of the shop’s special, sinfully dark chocolate truffles. On the gas stove, Althea started to melt a batch of the shop’s exclusive Amar chocolate. The chocolate’s intense scent filled the kitchen with its dizzying dark aroma. Its dramatic flavor was suddenly muted when Althea added a less pungent chocolate variety to the pot.
Bertie, certain I could finish up with the decorations on the truffles, moved over to another area on the large counter and started to pull ingredients together to make her famous sea salt chocolate caramels. People drove in from all over the state to buy them.
“We need to open an online store,” I said, surprised I hadn’t thought of it sooner.
“That’s a marvelous idea, Penn,” Bertie said as she pulled a large metal mixing bowl down from one of the many open shelves. “But perhaps we should finish making the chocolates for tomorrow first.”
I hadn’t told either Bertie or Althea about my encounter with Candy outside the shop. I considered telling them about it now as we each worked on separate projects. But just thinking about Candy made me lose my focus. I spilled half the bottle of gold dust on one truffle and had to stop my work to clean up the mess.
By the time I returned to my work of decorating the oversized tray of dark chocolate truffles that were so sinfully good they deserved their gold varnish (hey, that would make good advertising copy), my encounter with Candy no longer seemed important.
The three of us worked in silence for nearly an hour, broken only when the shop phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” Bertie said as she wiped her hands on a dish towel.
Playing with Bonbon Fire Page 9
