Full of curiosity and questions, I scrutinized Travis’s face to see how he reacted to Albany’s touchy-feely approach to breakfast. My advisor’s preoccupied expression told me nothing.
When I glanced back at Albany, she was watching me. Her face looked sharp; her features wary. But she smiled instantly.
“We’re so glad you’re here, Hayden!” she said. “I mean, despite the tragedy with Melissa and everything. We were just saying, Trav and I, the more the merrier, right, Trav?”
Her noticeable use of we (and Trav) stuck in my throat. I sipped my coffee, then decided to “take charge” again. As a first step in my nascent investigation into Melissa’s death, I’d decided it was important to get to know Albany. Her memoir and the resulting show were the reason everyone was in Sproutes for the holiday season. It made sense that, with her work as the backdrop, the murder might have had something to do with it. I couldn’t forget those Albany doppelgängers from last night.
“Despite everything, I’m happy to be here,” I admitted. I gazed at the parlor’s comfortable furnishings and colorful, shiny decorations—and at the dreamy snow falling lightly outside the window, piling up on the mullioned panes. None of the other guests were awake yet; we had the place to ourselves. “I’ve never experienced a real New England Christmas. This looks like the perfect place to spend the holiday, that’s for sure.”
Albany laughed again. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d grown up here. Right, Trav?” She gave him a companionable nudge. “There’s a reason I called my book Christmas in Crazytown.”
Aha. That was the perfect segue. “Was it really that bad?”
Albany’s eyes sparkled. “Define bad. In my family, everything is relative. But you have to laugh, right? Especially when your mom burns the turkey, with the frozen giblets still inside, by the way, and your sister goes vegan on the spot—”
“Ruining Christmas every year after!” Travis chimed in.
In sync, they beamed at each other. I didn’t get it. It wasn’t like Travis to interrupt. Usually, he was polite to a fault. Yet Albany seemed to have expected him to do just that. Perplexed, I glanced from Albany to my financial advisor. I had the sense this was an oft-repeated ritual between them, but . . .
“Going vegan isn’t that bad,” I said. “I’ve had some very tasty vegan meals. In Morocco, for instance, a good tagine is—”
Albany’s exasperated, confused exclamation stopped me.
Travis looked at me expectantly, as well. Then, “Hayden, you promised! You had all that time on your flight, too.”
Uh-oh. I recognized that edge to his voice. It was the same tone he employed while recommending anti-procrastination apps for my phone and haranguing me into finishing client reports.
I might possibly have a tiny problem with delaying certain elements of my work. Never the fun, hands-on, chocolate-centric parts, of course. Only the boring, necessary follow-up parts.
“Come on,” I protested in my own defense. When cornered, I tend to make jokes. “Does anyone really enjoy doing homework?”
Their impassive united confusion told me everything.
These two did enjoy doing homework. Probably always had.
“You didn’t read my book!” Albany pouted. She pointedly put down her orange-cranberry-pecan muffin, as though I’d ruined her appetite with my supposed shirking. “‘Ruining Christmas every year after!’ is my catchphrase! It’s a through line. After every appalling, hilarious event, the narrator just keeps saying it. It’s what people shout at me at book signings. It’s what my publisher printed below the starred review pull quotes on the musical tie-in edition. It’s how Oprah welcomed me on her show!”
Wow. Humblebragging, much? Still, I felt duly chastened.
It was as though Albany had tested me with that setup, and I’d failed. But Melissa’s death was too important for me to quit snooping around now. I still needed to gather background intel.
“Christmas in Crazytown is a musical?” I asked Albany. “I didn’t know Tansy Park could sing and dance, too. That’s cool.”
Albany chortled. Her laughter wasn’t as enchanting as Tansy’s had been. “Tansy’s singing and dancing are . . . enthusiastic, to put it kindly. But she’s not in the production to excel at performing, you understand. It’s like Melissa always told me—”
Albany choked on her next words. Apparently, her newfound breeziness had just worn off. She looked away, sniffling and apologizing. I suddenly felt terrible for pressuring her for details about the show—and even worse for assuming that Albany didn’t care about her producer. Despite her earlier bragging, this version of Albany was more likable and less exclusionary.
But I couldn’t trust my own judgment when it came to Travis’s longtime friend. It turned out, I was having a surprisingly difficult time dealing with their closeness.
I’ve never been the competitive type—not when it came to people in my life, at least. I was nonplussed by the feeling.
“Tansy is in the production to put ‘butts in seats,’” Travis explained, bailing out Albany in her moment of need. “That’s how it is with entertainment these days. Producers want a sure thing. A best-selling memoir is a start, but a bankable star is insurance. Even if Tansy performs poorly, people will come to see her. That was Melissa’s philosophy, at any rate.”
Interesting. “I guess we’ll see if that’s true.”
Albany’s face took on a dour cast. “If the show opens. That’s not guaranteed anymore, thanks to last night’s disaster.”
Apparently, Albany wasn’t too sensitive not to consider her own bottom line. “You think the premiere will be delayed?”
A shrug. “There’ve been calls to cancel the entire show.”
I didn’t want to be insensitive myself, but... “Can the show go on without Melissa? I’m not sure of a producer’s role, but Roger is still here. If he can bring himself to work, that is.”
Albany’s reply was a snort. “Nothing but his own untimely demise will stop Roger Balthasar from working. He’s a machine.”
“Really?” Sometimes, the less said, the better. At least when it came to leading (what were essentially) witnesses.
But Albany didn’t take the bait. She gave her muffin a halfhearted nibble, then sighed dramatically. “Yes, really.”
Humph. That was hardly illuminating. A police detective had once told me that, when it came to murder, it was important to examine the victim’s spouse. To consider him or her a suspect.
I was having no trouble believing Roger Balthasar to be untrustworthy, duplicitous, and potentially murderous. I didn’t care about the age gap between him and Melissa. I did care about (what appeared to be) his attempts to shut down the police.
Evidently, Albany wouldn’t be the one to help clarify that. I chewed another delicious bite of chocolaty muffin (brain food, naturally), then regrouped. I still didn’t know all the ins and outs of Christmas in Crazytown—the musical show or the book.
“What interested you in writing a memoir?” I asked Albany.
She looked askance at me. I thought the jig was up—I’d been too obvious in trying to extract information—but Travis jumped in.
“Actually, it’s a ‘lightly fictionalized’ memoir,” he told me in that very specific, I-alphabetize-my-canned-goods way he had. “That means that, while the people, places, and incidents mentioned in the book are genuine, their portrayals might not be. Especially not in the show, as a matter of expedience.”
I frowned at him. I understood that much. I’m not a dunce; I simply don’t like spending all my airplane time on required reading. The minute Travis had suggested I bone up on Albany’s work on my way to Sproutes, my innate contrariness had kicked in. I hate being told what to do. Along with my incurable monkey mind (which always keeps me hopping) and my procrastination tendencies, stubbornness is one of my most defining features.
However, I was familiar with Albany’s book. I would have had to have spent the past six months under a rock not to be. D
espite being overseas a lot, I’d heard of Albany’s media blitz, her sensational memoir, her witticisms on late-night television.
I’m not above playing dumb when it suits me, though.
I widened my eyes. “Isn’t it difficult to keep things straight in your own mind, then?” I asked Albany. “Memory is malleable, you know. There’s research showing that witness testimony, for instance, can be shifted through subtle manipulation. People can be made to believe lots of things.”
“Are you suggesting I’m manipulating people with my book?”
“No, no!” Sure, maybe. “Only that it’s possible your childhood Christmases here in Sproutes weren’t so bad. Or so funny. Not as much as you made them out to be, at least.”
“Well, of course they weren’t.” A beat passed while Albany squared off with me. “I made them funny through talent, insight, and amazing writing. But the raw material was there. I mean, come on. My parents named us Albany, Cashel, and Ophelia. With names like those, how well adjusted could we have turned out?”
I smiled. I had the sense Albany had employed that quip lots of times. On my mental Moleskine, I noted her siblings’ names. I thought I remembered Danny IDing Ophelia last night.
“You’re well adjusted,” Travis reassured Albany. His deep, sexy tone softened warmly for her. “You overcame a lot.”
“Thanks to you!” Tenderly, she stroked his hand. “You’re a champion, Trav. What in the world would I have done without you? You were my inspiration, you know. Seeing what you went through—”
“‘Went.’ Past tense. No need to rehash any of that.”
His words were gently said, but Travis’s posture had turned distinctly guarded. His shoulders looked stiff, too. That might have been because of his (usual) tailored suit, worn today with an open-collar shirt and spiffy oxford shoes. His jawline looked taut, but everyday handsomeness was probably to blame for that.
“No more trips down memory lane without fuel!” Travis spied Zach Johnson emerging from the kitchen with a napkin-covered basket of what I assumed were baked goods. Jovially, my keeper waved over the B and B’s host. “Not that these goodies will be half as tasty as the delicious chocolate treats you create, Hayden.”
Okay. Now I knew something fishy was going on. My financial advisor was a genius at finance, itineraries, and research of all kinds. He excelled at making connections. But he was the worst at misdirection—especially when it came packaged with a compliment. Empty flattery wasn’t Travis’s style. Not with me.
It briefly occurred to me that maybe Travis was different—more relaxed—here, where he grew up, with media darling Albany at his side, bolstering him. But I didn’t think so. I thought Travis had a secret. I wanted to find out what it was.
“I’ll be sure to give you extra helpings next time,” I assured him sweetly, promising myself to get to the bottom of this. If my advisor thought he could sidestep me, he was wrong.
I chatted with Zach while he delivered what indeed were more baked goods—muffins and croissants, pains au chocolat and flaky fruit Danishes. The innkeeper was friendly, if slightly subdued. I would have expected sadness or a bit of conjecture about Melissa’s tragic passing, but Zach hadn’t even mentioned it. Along with Albany, Zach seemed not to want to linger on Melissa’s death. That seemed odd to me. Wasn’t it human nature to talk about such an awful event? But maybe New Englanders were different. Maybe that taciturn Yankee reputation was merited.
The funny thing was that Zach’s earlier text messages to me, confirming my arrival and the lockbox routine to retrieve my room key, had been funny enough to make me laugh out loud.
Maybe Zach was one of those people who preferred digital communication, I reasoned. With certain clients, I’m the same way. But I was pretty sure my persona remained static, no matter what. I didn’t think I came across as particularly clever while on Twitter or aloof via SMS. On the other hand, Travis, distinct from most people, doesn’t have a single social-media profile. Not even a headshot on his company’s “About Us” webpage. He’s notoriously private. Now, given the things Albany had said about Travis’s difficult past, I wondered if he was hiding from something. Or maybe hiding from someone. I wished I knew.
I glanced up from selecting my second muffin (you would have had an encore, too; they were delightful) to see Zach looking at Albany. Specifically, at her hand, which rested on Travis’s sleeve. If I appeared half as jealous earlier as Zach did then . . .
Well, let’s just say I needed to shake off that feeling. Tout de suite. Because it wasn’t pretty to witness or to feel.
Albany didn’t look up. “You should really consider offering a gluten-free option,” she told Zach. “Lots of people are moving toward cleaner diets these days, even at Christmastime.”
Her blithe criticism left poor Zach downcast. It seemed he had hoped for her approval and had been rebuffed. While he and Albany peered judgmentally at his glutenous baked goods, I caught Travis making a face. Unlike Albany, I knew Travis didn’t like “fussy eating.” He even joked about it. So I almost burst out laughing. Travis saw. He winked, then smiled at me. We were back. Buddies through to the end. My heart swelled with happiness.
You know, just a little bit. As I said, I’m not into Travis. Not passionately. Not unless he’s speaking in that dizzying voice of his. But I was pleased to know that he hadn’t changed completely. I knew a few details about him, too, even if they didn’t relate to his past. He apparently still didn’t favor a “clean diet.” There was hope I’d make Travis fall in love with a varietal dark chocolate, perfectly made to melt in his mouth.
Or maybe something sweeter. Milk chocolate. Or white?
Despite my training and experience, I’m not a snob about white chocolate—also known, when properly made, as a buttery combination of cocoa butter, milk fat, and sugar. What’s not to like? Anyone who says it’s not “real chocolate” can fight me.
“Anyway, I must dash.” Albany tossed down her Christmas-print napkin and rose. She leaned over to kiss Travis’s cheek—loudly, with a showy smack of her lips—then laughed and wiped off the lip-gloss smudge she’d left. “I tried to get a hold of the show’s cast and crew to let them know about Melissa and cancel today’s rehearsal, but I wasn’t able to reach everyone. I want to get to the theater in case people show up for work.”
“Good idea.” Travis’s glowing expression suggested it might be the finest idea in the history of mankind. “I’ll be right behind you.” This time, he squeezed Albany’s hand caringly.
Whoa. Were the two of them . . . an item? I needed Danny’s take on the situation, stat. He’d been in Sproutes longer than I had. My bodyguard buddy would know the score. I could count on him for background and solid conjecture. Plus, I wanted Danny’s views on Melissa’s maybe-murder. We needed to talk sans clients.
While I thought about that, Zach busied himself brushing crumbs from our table. He was still watching Albany, but a lot less moonily now. I guessed I’d misjudged the situation. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a few B&B guests arriving for breakfast. Life seemed to be moving on, despite last night’s catastrophe. Poor Melissa Balthasar. She deserved justice.
Except Albany didn’t move. “You’re not coming, Trav?”
She sounded vaguely petulant, but Travis didn’t notice.
“I thought I’d catch up with Hayden for a while,” he said.
“Oh.” For a moment, Albany seemed annoyed. It was evident that she and Travis had a routine. Then she said, “Okay! Later!”
As she strode lithely away, leaving lemongrass perfume and vaguely hurt feelings in her wake, I couldn’t help feeling I’d won. For now, Travis was mine. But that was crazy, right?
Despite Albany’s flowing brunette locks, she was the golden girl of the moment. She was stylish, imitated, and widely admired. She’d inspired countless online memes, multiple bidding wars, and bucketloads of salacious speculation—not to mention, a famous skit on late-night TV. Albany was (probably) wealthy and (indisputably)
successful. She could have Travis Turner if she wanted to. The question in my mind was, Did she want to?
When I surfaced from my ruminations, Travis was watching me. Patiently, with the same unshakable sense of equability he always possessed. His gaze seemed uncomfortably. . . perceptive.
“I warned you that Albany can be hard to warm up to.”
“Don’t be absurd!” I protested. “I barely know her.”
“Yet you haven’t announced that you like her,” my keeper pointed out. “For you, that’s as good as saying you loathe her.”
I laughed, despite noting, worryingly, how hurt he seemed that Albany and I hadn’t become insta-buddies. “I don’t loathe her! Albany seems . . . intent on reminding me that I wasn’t in your past. Her cliquishness is a little off putting, that’s all.”
Travis’s expression eased. “She may be overreacting out of anxiety,” he allowed. “She’s had a difficult time lately. Also, according to Albany, I talk about you a lot. She’s intimidated.”
I hooted. Whatever else was going on with Albany, I doubted she suffered from feelings of inadequacy. “Ooh, you talk about me?” Jokingly, I fluttered my eyelashes at him. “Really? Go on.”
But Travis wasn’t interested in teasing. “Scoring your account was a big deal, years ago. Albany helped me strategize.”
Oh. I hadn’t expected business talk. I frowned slightly. “I thought you ‘scored’ my account because old Mr. What’s-his-name retired?” My previous financial advisor had been . . . enervating.
“Either way, it’s all in the past now.” Travis swept his gaze over my plate of chocolaty muffin, plus fruit and yogurt. “If you’re almost finished with that, we can get started.”
“But what if I want to talk about the devious machinations you apparently went through to work on my trust fund?”
If there’d been any, of course. It was a good thing Danny wasn’t there, I knew. I was sure my security-expert pal still harbored a few distrustful thoughts about the man who helped manage my fortune. As Danny would have said, I was the golden goose. I couldn’t take for granted that Travis would always have my nonfinancial interests at heart.
The Peppermint Mocha Murder Page 4
