The Peppermint Mocha Murder

by Colette London

  Hmm. “I’ve heard that Albany didn’t always appreciate Tansy’s acting choices.” I was careful to tactfully phrase Albany’s slurs against Tansy’s acting, using the same low voice that Linda had. “But not that Tansy was demanding in any way.”

  Linda’s answering chortle seemed hostile. “‘Demanding’ is putting it mildly,” she assured me. “Tansy wanted rewrites. She wanted more solo numbers. She wanted a fancier premiere venue.”

  Here, Linda harrumphed. I detected a certain amount of Sproutesian pride in her demeanor. Why not? It was a nice town.

  She went on. “Melissa assured us that having the show debut here in Albany’s hometown would be advantageous, but Tansy—”

  A sudden quieting of the crowd reawakened me to our surroundings. I’d been so engrossed in Linda’s tirade that I hadn’t been paying attention while Tansy addressed the Sproutes Sentinel staffers and (I presume) charmed their pants off.

  Right on cue, Linda broke off and delivered a brilliant smile. She waved to Tansy, as though they were dear friends.

  The actress must have acknowledged Linda in her remarks, I deduced, and Linda had realized it just in time to respond.

  That meant it was my turn to harrumph. Inwardly. I didn’t know who to believe anymore. Linda Sullivan, who seemed so devoted to her children and her newspaper? Tansy Park, who seemed so sensitive and honest . . . and had been vetted by Danny?

  Reminded that he had to be present somewhere if Tansy was on the scene, I looked around. I spotted him at the back of the room, leaning with apparent nonchalance against the wall, arms folded over his muscle-bound chest while he watched Tansy.

  I wasn’t fooled by my bodyguard buddy’s lazy demeanor. I knew he would be observing everyone present, alert for trouble.

  Fortunately, the most disastrous thing likely to occur that day was a serious grumbling. The paper votes had been drawn from the ballot box and sorted into (revealingly) lopsided piles.

  “And this year’s Sproutes Sentinel Bake-Off and cookie swap winner is . . .” Tansy waited, letting the suspense build. “Linda!”

  There were murmurs. Then a smattering of applause. It picked up intensity as Josh Levitt clapped more loudly himself.

  It looked as though I’d just lost our bet. There went twenty bucks. I watched, feeling dejected on Josh’s behalf, as Linda Sullivan made her way to the front of the room, blushing and waving. With a smile, she hoisted the contest’s trophy.

  Although I liked her, I couldn’t be entirely happy for her.

  I shot Josh a consoling glance. “Next time!” I mouthed.

  He shrugged and bit into a cookie. No lasting harm done. That made me feel better—but Danny’s perceptive look didn’t. He reached me seconds later, after shouldering his way through the crowd.

  “The fix is in,” he said. “The editor had a lock on it.”

  I appreciated him trying to make me feel better about Josh’s defeat. Danny was the only one who knew I’d tutored him.

  I changed the subject. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “They asked Tansy to make an appearance, so she agreed.”

  We both watched the actress. “She seems thrilled,” I said.

  “Yeah, she does.” Danny crossed his arms again. His cynical gaze met mine. “Convincing, right? You’d never know I had to drag her here, kicking and screaming.”

  I was surprised. “Drag her here? Really?”

  Danny gave a tight-lipped nod. Something in his unsettled expression made me worried. I thought I knew what was coming.

  “Tansy told me she hates meet and greets like this, but you sure can’t tell.” Danny studied his vivacious, smiling client. His gaze transferred to mine again. Darkly, my friend added, “Looks like Tansy’s an even better actress than I thought.”

  I nodded. We both knew what that meant.

  We had to keep a closer eye on Tansy. I had an idea how.

  “I’m on the job,” I said. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

  Then I went to assemble a Christmassy plate of frosted and sprinkled sugar cookies for Travis, exactly the way he wanted.

  Things might have been heating up on Melissa’s murder investigation, but that didn’t mean I planned to shirk my duty to my friend and advisor. I’d sooner ruin a whole batch of fine chocolates than disappoint Travis—especially now that I knew that his childhood might have included very few treats at all.

  With my heart in my throat, I hurried away before Danny asked what was wrong. I knew he’d be able to tell. I wanted to process what I’d learned about Travis’s past on my own first.

  The thing that bugged me most, though, was that Travis had never told me. As long as he was keeping secrets from me—maybe even many more secrets—what kind of friends could we really be?

  Ten

  When I returned to the B&B to deliver Travis’s surprise plate of holiday cookies, my financial advisor was nowhere in sight. It wasn’t like him to disappear without warning.

  Thwarted, I checked my phone. It turned out that while I’d been making the white-knuckle drive between the newspaper offices and the B and B, I’d missed a series of texts from Travis.

  Rehearsals are back on, said the first. More details later.

  Then, Melissa’s memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow.

  I scanned the funeral details he’d provided, wondering if I could justifiably attend. Probably not, I decided. I hadn’t known Melissa Balthasar.

  I sighed and scrolled down to read Travis’s final message.

  Thanks for the cookies, it read. You’re the best.

  I laughed, shaking my head. My gaze fell on my plastic-wrapped plate of cookies, which I’d carefully selected to suit my keeper’s preferences. How had he known I’d bring them?

  You’re too nice, came the next message, the first to arrive in real time. Wherever he was, he had time to type. But thanks.

  “Humph. ‘Too nice,’ huh?” Proving him wrong, I chose the most delectable-looking example of the buttery, pecan-filled, confectioners’ sugar–dusted Mexican wedding cookies I’d brought.

  Defiantly, I munched it. It tasted almost as delicious as my deliberate contrariness did. In this naughty-or-nice scenario, I vowed, this particular chocolate whisperer was getting a big lump of coal in her stocking, for a change.

  I was tired of Travis and Danny accusing me of being “too soft” on my suspects and “too nice” in general. So what if I sometimes gave struggling chocolate-whispering clients extra time to settle up their invoices? So what if I slipped a bonus tip into the barista’s jar when the person in front of me forgot? That didn’t make me some kind of gullible nincompoop.

  It made me human. That’s it.

  My phone vibrated. I glanced at the next message.

  Very rebellious, it read. Tasty cookie?

  All right. I swiveled around, planning to scour the area outside Travis’s room. Instantly, I spotted the man himself.

  He strode closer, laughing. “You should see your face.”

  Peevishly, I blamed Albany for my advisor’s newfound prankster tendencies. “Just for that, no cookies for you.”

  Travis appeared repentant. “It’s a joke, Hayden.” His keen gaze lowered to the plate of cookies. “I really do appreciate these.” He helped himself to the plate, deftly removing it from my hands. He bumped his hip on his room’s door, unlocking it with what I assumed was his pocketed room key. “Come on in.”

  I was tempted. Me, Travis, alone . . . Why not?

  “I’m supposed to be reading.” I hooked my thumb toward my designated B&B room down the hall. “I have this really strict required reading assignment. A memoir.” I made a “What can you do?” face. “If I don’t finish, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “I’ve heard procrastination is a good excuse.” His voice rumbled, washing over me with familiar, husky appeal. “Plus, I have cookies to share. Someone’s got to help me eat these.”

  I caught a glimpse of the interior of Travis’s B&B room
—the one he shared nightly with Albany—and snapped to my senses. I had important things to do. For all I knew, this was a test.

  “Thanks, but if I eat another cookie, I’ll burst.” I put my palms on my belly in joking demonstration. “You go ahead.”

  “But everything’s better shared,” Travis cajoled.

  When he talked to me that way, all I wanted to do was agree. His voice was my kryptonite. It made me forget reason.

  But not today, I pledged. I refocused. “I have a feeling you’ll enjoy those more than I would.” Because you hardly ever had treats when you were a teenager. It seemed so unjust. “But if you want to talk, I’m dying to know what it was like growing up here in Sproutes,” I remarked casually. “You know, as a person on the swim team or the yearbook staff—things like that.”

  Travis’s eyes narrowed. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Linda Sullivan.” I raised my chin. “She’s going to be my source for all things teenage Travis Turner trivia related.”

  Comprehension darkened his eyes. “Of course. Albany’s mom works at the Sentinel now. I’d forgotten she’d be there today.”

  “I’m told,” I began, winding up to tease him, “that if you’d actually finished Albany’s book, you’d already know that.”

  “Har, har.” Travis gazed longingly at his frosted cookies, then appeared to come to a decision. “You can’t believe her, Hayden. There are things you don’t know about the Sullivans.”

  “So tell me.”

  A headshake. “It’s not my story to tell.”

  “Come on. Did you and Albany pinkie swear to hide each other’s secret pasts or something? It’s me, Trav! Trust me.”

  But there was no reaching him. Not then. “Thanks again for the cookies. I have to check in with the office. Talk later?”

  “Sure.” I recognized a brush-off when I experienced one. As I was about to turn away, I had another idea. “Hey, Danny and Tansy invited me and Josh to join them for a Santa pub crawl tomorrow night. You and Albany should come, too. It’ll be fun.”

  I explained that we’d be dressing up in red-and-white Santa costumes with black boots and beards, then visiting local bars.

  “On foot, in Sproutes’s old-town district,” I specified. “Where we can safely get around while toasting to Christmas.”

  “The enforcer has invented holiday beer. I’m impressed.”

  “I don’t think Danny invented it, but I’ll tell him you said you liked the idea. He’ll be so happy you approve.”

  A wry grin crossed Travis’s face. “I’ll bet he will.”

  “So you’ll come?” I pressed. “You and Albany?”

  After meeting Linda and learning that Tansy might be a far more skilled actress than I’d counted on—one who could hide her nefarious intentions toward Albany or Melissa, for instance—I had new interest in getting to know Travis’s longtime friend.

  Had I misjudged her? There was only one way to find out.

  Travis kept me in suspense. “I’ll let you know,” he said.

  Then he said his good-byes and left me alone in the hallway. I was no more enlightened about his past than I had been coming in, but I was no less determined, either. I had to know more.

  * * *

  Prompted by Travis’s mysterious comment about the Sullivans (and all the things I didn’t know about them), I spent much of the afternoon trying to track down Joe Sullivan, Albany’s dad.

  Joe was the only member of the cliquish clan whom I hadn’t yet met. I scoured Albany’s memoir for mentions of him. I inspected her interviews and media coverage for anecdotes about him. In a burst of frustration, I even flipped open the musty Sproutes phone directory and studied it for references to him.

  By the time I realized I was obsessing about the issue, it was too late. I was already down the rabbit hole. I couldn’t stop. See, one of the things that makes me a skilled chocolate expert is my ability to remain focused, even when the problems I’m troubleshooting are complex. Another is my passion for making sure that every detail is accounted for. Taken together, those qualities result in excellent chocolaty creations—when I’m working, that is. When I’m not, well . . . let’s just say that my methodical, borderline fanatical nature can get me into trouble.

  It can, for instance, make me focus too narrowly, causing me to overlook important things. That day, though, it merely brought me downstairs at the B and B, where I hoped to find out more about Joe Sullivan, aka the workaholic enigma.

  I zeroed in on Zach Johnson, then smiled at my host. There were chocolates in my hands and a host of questions on my mind.

  “Zach!” I called. “Hi! I have something for you.”

  Three minutes later, Zach had amiably accepted my gift of some hand-dipped chocolate-cherry creams. Then he’d called over one of his assistants to man the front desk, so he could answer the “few questions” about Sproutes that I wanted to ask him.

  We settled together in the B and B’s newly reopened dining room, with reams of paper and scissors on the table in front of us—part of a paper-snowflake-making project for the B and B’s guests. That should have delighted me, since it was another holiday activity that I had heard about but had never experienced.

  As it was, though, I couldn’t stop seeing Melissa B.’s lifeless body there, crumpled on the floor, amid spilled wassail.

  Zach was sensitive enough to notice my distress.

  “It feels too soon, I know,” he acknowledged, casting his own gaze to the scrubbed and spotless floor. “But it had to happen sometime. My guests were starting to feel uncomfortable, wondering about it. I thought, with the memorial service finally scheduled and things moving forward with the show, it was time.”

  Well, then, kindhearted Zach Johnson probably wasn’t my Christmas killer, I mused. He wouldn’t have wanted to risk damaging his B and B’s business. Leaving a dead body in the dining room tended to cause low ratings on those travel-review sites.

  That fact was as good as an alibi for my innkeeper friend. Also, as far as I knew, Zach had no motive for murdering any of the Albany look-alikes, despite having the most access of anyone.

  “Ah, yes. I heard that Roger’s decided to go ahead with the premiere,” I chatted. Gravely, I asked, “How is he doing?”

  “About as well as can be expected, I guess,” Zach told me. “He seems to be holding up. It’s possible he’s still in shock.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Anyone would have a hard time.”

  “I think Roger just wants to get back to work now.” Zach gave me an opaque look—probably wondering why I was so curious about the show’s producer. “Sometimes life really does go on.”

  “Yes.” I’d seen—and lived—that platitude enough times lately to know it was true. “I hope staying busy will help Roger. Maybe Melissa would have liked that?” I was fishing.

  “Maybe.” Zach wasn’t snapping at the bait. He glanced at the open box of chocolates I’d given him, then slapped his hands on his thighs and got down to business. “So, you said you have some questions about Sproutes?” His determination to change the subject was evident. “You’re looking at a lifelong resident here”—he thumped his chest—”so I can probably help you out.”

  “Really? You’ve lived here your whole life?”

  A nod. He picked up a piece of white paper and idly started folding. That alone made me feel like a kindred spirit with him. Sometimes, I find it hard to sit still myself. I need to act.

  “That means you must know almost everyone in town!” I enthused. “Which brings me to the reason I’m here.” Brightly, I leaned forward. “I’m told that Joe Sullivan, Albany’s dad, is one of the most influential people in Sproutes. And since I’m trying to bring attention to this new chocolate brand . . .”

  I produced a cellophane-wrapped, ribbon-adorned sample of chocolate fudge. It was another impromptu creation, different from the chocolate-peppermint bark that I’d fabricated while searching for a way to meet Ophelia. “I thought I might give a few
boxes to Mr. Sullivan, with the hope he’d share it at work.”

  “At work? That’s a good idea. He’s there all the time.”

  Right. I wondered where “there” was. In Albany’s memoir, her father was referred to simply as “the father.” His job was described as “the office.” His favorite place was “the golf course.” It had been fairly obvious that Albany resented him.

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” I gushed in reference to Joe Sullivan’s job. “I guess when you do such fascinating work—”

  “Joe’s the best at it, that’s for sure.”

  “Then you never want to leave, right?” I laughed.

  Zach completed another fold, then turned his paper. “Why not just give it to Albany? She can make sure her dad gets it.”

  Because I don’t want Albany to ask why I want to meet her father, I thought. Because I don’t want her to know I’m trying to separate fact from fiction in her notorious memoir. Because I don’t want Albany and Ophelia to compare notes about me.

  I couldn’t say any of that to Zach.

  I sighed. “Albany’s so busy. I’d like to go straight to the source, but I, uh, haven’t been able to make an appointment.”

  “You shouldn’t need an appointment. Just go on in.”

  I was stuck. I couldn’t agree to that idea without my whole house of cards falling down. That was the trouble with sleuthing—with pretending to know more than you really did.

  Beside me, Zach started snipping away bits of his folded paper. I watched, fascinated by the process, despite myself.

  “But if it’s an influencer you want,” my host said while crafting his paper snowflake, “you should approach Roger.”

  An influencer. That was an interesting way to put it. Very Ophelia-like. Albany’s sister and I were meeting again soon for another photo shoot. So far, her followers had responded well to the chocolate-peppermint bark she’d featured on her account. It hadn’t seen a meteoric rise yet, but Ophelia remained hopeful.