“Good morning! You’re going to enjoy the pain au chocolat. It’s well done, with just enough bâton de chocolat in each one.” I nodded at Roger’s plate, which contained one of the pastries. “The addition of cranberry jam makes it nice and Christmassy.”
That was a culinary twist I’d approved of, so I explained in further detail exactly what made it perfect. My hat was off to Zach’s pastry chef. I really needed to start my chocolate houses, though. They would need time to set before decorating.
“Eh, it’ll do in a pinch.” With that casual dismissal of my expertise, he set down his coffee. His face brightened as he got a better look at me. He offered his hand. “I’m Roger Balthasar!”
It was an announcement as much as anything else, and it led to an awkward moment between us. He seemed to expect me to know him. Of course, I did, but not for the reasons he probably wanted: his famous exploits wheeling and dealing as a producer.
“Yes, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said in a respectful undertone. “I can tell that everyone will really miss Melissa.”
In response, Roger’s face fell. He frowned, clearly let down. “Me, most of all. She’s left me quite a mess to sort out.”
A mess? His disgruntled tone was obvious. I gawked, not wanting to believe I’d heard him say something quite so callous.
He saw and actually grinned. “Believe me, she would have had a few choice words for me, too, if our roles were reversed.”
“Really?” His glib remarks left me feeling flat footed. Yes, I suspected Roger of being a potential murderer, but I expected him to try a little harder to hide his shadowy side. Weren’t all the best criminals super devious? “Is that so?”
“Hell, yeah!” With a low groan, Roger settled onto the armchair beside me. A round occasional table and a lamp served as barriers between us. His profile was self-assured, with his gray hair arranged in a short, up-to-the-minute style. He wasn’t hiding that he was older, but he seemed far from fusty. “That’s how Melissa was,” Roger confided easily. His voice boomed. “My wife was a real shark—a go-getter to the bone. That’s what first attracted me to her. Her ruthless nature was so . . . unique.”
He said this wistfully, the way another man might have remarked on his wife’s gift for writing ingenious software code or her talent for hosting an effective networking get-together.
I must have misheard him. “Her ruthless nature?”
“Absolutely.” This was spiced up with a few curse words. “When I met Melissa, she undercut me on a deal. The rest, as they say, was history.” Conspiratorially, Roger leaned closer. I smelled coffee on his breath as he tipped his head toward the B and B’s front desk, where I’d noticed Zach and Albany earlier. “So, you think those two are bumping uglies?” He winked.
I was appalled. Sure, I’d wondered if Albany and Zach might still have feelings for each other, but not nearly so crudely.
“You do!” Roger chortled. “You don’t have to say so. The look on your face gives it all away. Ha-ha-ha!” He gazed at me with new interest. “What’s your name, croissant expert?”
Technically, pains au chocolat—“breads with chocolate” in English—weren’t croissants, I knew. It’s a misperception shared by lots of people. While pains au chocolat are made with the same type of laminated pastry dough as croissants are, the shape is necessarily different, to better contain the chocolate.
I stopped myself from geeking out on pastry specifics any further and instead met Roger’s gaze squarely. If I could take charge of this conversation, maybe I could learn something.
“I’m Hayden Mundy Moore. I should have said so before.” But I was busy thinking you needed consoling over your wife’s recent death. I nodded at him. “I’m a friend of Albany Sullivan’s.”
Okay, I was name-dropping. But I doubted he knew Travis.
“One of Albany’s peeps, eh? Cool, cool.” Roger munched a bit of his breakfast, then washed it down with coffee. I doubted he tasted a morsel of it. “She’s a nice girl. Very pretty.”
“And witty,” I couldn’t resist specifying. “So talented.”
Roger waved away those qualities. I should have expected his assessing gaze to run up and down my figure next, and it did. Even curled up in my armchair, wearing (my usual) jeans and a warm sweater with moto boots, I felt uncomfortably exposed.
“Her memoir is remarkable,” I pushed. “It was smart of your wife to recognize its potential. Did it make the rounds much?”
“No more than usual.” Roger’s eyes narrowed. “Hayden Mundy Moore. I’ve heard that someplace . . .” He snapped his fingers. “You’re the hot-to-trot one! The one who needs an influencer!”
Somehow, he made influencer sound exactly like lech. Ugh.
This had to be Zach’s doing—his way of putting out feelers. He’d suggested that Roger Balthasar was exactly what I needed.
I regretted every minute of trying to get Zach to help me. Next time, I vowed, I’d be more circumspect and avoid jams like this one. “I’m in the market for sponsorship opportunities for a client,” I agreed smoothly, ignoring Roger’s weird hot-to-trot comment. Zach must have garbled the message somehow. I put on my best innocent look. “Do you know someone who’s influential?”
I stopped short of batting my eyelashes, but only barely.
Roger’s poorly concealed annoyance was its own reward. He smiled, but it looked more as though he’d gritted his teeth. Given what Danny had told me about him, I knew he was an L.A. big shot.
I couldn’t help thinking it was people like Roger B. who put the “deviant” and “amoral” in the “Hollywood types” that people had mentioned in their letters to the Sentinel’s editor.
“I’m influential,” Roger informed me testily. “Although you can be forgiven for not knowing that yet, since we just met.”
“Oh? Really?” I frowned. “Um, who do you influence?”
“Everyone. Nobody crosses me. Believe me, that’s a fact.”
This time, I did bat my eyelashes. “It sounds as though your wife crossed you. You said she undercut you on a deal.” I let that reminder sink in while I finished my coffee. I studied Roger Balthasar over my coffee cup’s rim. “That must have hurt.”
For a moment, he seemed to be dumbfounded. Or seething.
Was he reliving an incident that had made him murder his wife in a punch bowl of wassail? I couldn’t forget the possibility of his having bribed the police.
I hadn’t lingered there solely to annoy him, but at this point, it was a nice side benefit. I didn’t like Roger at all.
Quickly enough, he rallied. “Like I said, I liked that about Melissa. I loved her ambition and her ruthlessness.”
He seemed to genuinely mean it. I found that creepy. What kind of person treasured their beloved’s ruthless side?
Maybe the kind of person who’d kill their own spouse? In which case, I didn’t want to stick around. Not without backup.
“Yes, well, they say there’s someone for everyone.”
I no longer had the heart to needle him on purpose. All I wanted was to leave and get on with my day. With that in mind, I uncurled myself from my chair and grabbed my bag.
“Don’t you want to know what she loved about me?”
Roger’s brusque voice stopped me. I had my back to him, but there was no mistaking the sense of wounded entitlement there.
I reasoned that the best thing to do was play along.
“Of course.” I put on a smile, then turned. Maybe I was being too hard on him, I told myself. Maybe Roger B. couldn’t help being crass, insulting, and oblivious to his effect on people. Maybe that was what grieving did to him. Agreeably, I asked, “What did your wife love about you?”
I nearly cringed while awaiting his answer, sure it would be something even more ribald than “bumping uglies” had been.
My imagination ran wild. I wanted so much to rein it in.
In all solemnity, Roger said, “She loved my sensitivity.”
I knew I was gawkin
g again. I simply couldn’t help it.
“Nah, just kidding! She loved my big, fat wallet! Ha-ha!”
Yes, the “big, fat wallet” he’d used to bribe the police into not investigating her likely murder. If the afterlife existed, Melissa had to be looking down on us in fury just then.
I was stumped for a response to that. I truly hoped he was kidding. In the end, no reply was necessary. That was because Roger Balthasar had already taken out his phone and was ignoring me while swiping through his notifications and messages. Rude.
“Break a leg today,” I told him, then made my escape.
* * *
Whatever Roger had been looking at on his phone, I saw a few minutes later, it had a dramatic effect on him. I was leaving my room key with Zach when the producer barged past.
Beneath his stylish hair, Roger’s face looked pale, as though he’d had some bad news. I wondered what it might be.
I’d just finished with my B and B’s host, so impulsively, I followed Roger Balthasar. He flung on a jacket while striding out onto the B and B’s decorated porch. His breath made plumes in the frosty air; so did mine. Hastily, I dragged on my coat.
I’d planned to go to the shared work space that Zach had mentioned artisans and crafters used to prepare for the charity auction. Now I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to trail Roger instead.
He didn’t look back as he stomped down the B and B’s steps and hurried to his vehicle. I did a double take as I saw the one he chose: a dark-colored SUV, similar to last night’s attack model.
Hmm. As far as I remembered, Roger hadn’t been part of the Santa pub crawl. Had he lingered nearby and attacked afterward?
I could easily imagine him attempting some light vehicular manslaughter. It was a little trickier picturing him in a borrowed velour Santa suit and tie-on beard. I wasted a moment examining the SUV, trying to discern if it was the same vehicle.
I couldn’t tell, and now I had no time to lose. I got in my own rental car and pulled out, teeth chattering in the cold.
Ahead of me along the road to Sproutes, the taillights of Roger’s SUV swerved and dipped. He was speeding. His erratic driving worried me, but I had no choice except to keep up.
I wanted to know what had Roger in such a tearing hurry.
It was possible, I thought as I clenched the steering wheel and peered through the blustery snow that had begun falling, that a self-important big shot like Roger always drove this way. He was from Los Angeles, after all. There you had to keep up on the highway, or you’d be a danger to yourself and others. But rural Massachusetts wasn’t Southern California. If anything, the weather and slick conditions should have demanded more caution.
Instead, Roger sped up. Because he’d noticed me?
Warily, I fell back. I pulled my knit cap lower, hoping to hide my face. My thoughts went crazy. Was I really engaging in a car chase? I caught a glimpse of Roger’s harried-looking face in his side mirror. He was yelling into his phone, red-faced, now.
I wished I could have called Danny or Travis. But that would have been foolhardy—just as dangerous as following Roger might turn out to be. Who knew what he was up to? Was he leading me out into the wilderness as an ambush? Was he Melissa’s killer? He’d already warned me that nobody crossed him. . . .
On the next turn, my rental car lost traction. For one terrifying instant, I skidded crazily. The nearest snowbank seemed to zoom toward me. I steered with my heart pounding, trying to remember the driving instructions for this situation.
Instinct told me to slam on the brakes. I steered into the skid instead. A second later, the car’s tires regained traction.
Whew. I had control again. I blinked and gulped in some air, hoping to calm my racing heartbeat, as I sped along. As I looked ahead, though—now that the crisis was past—I saw that the road was empty. Somehow, Roger Balthasar had slipped away.
I swore and shook my head. Some amateur sleuth I was. I’d bombed out on my very first car chase. I had almost wrecked my vehicle in a snowbank—or worse—and had nothing to show for it. Dispirited but abuzz with adrenaline, I pulled over to catch my breath.
I probably made an odd sight, there on the road into town, with my head cradled in my arms atop the steering wheel, scared.
I was scared about what I’d just done. Scared about the lengths I’d now go to try to solve an overlooked murder. I didn’t want to be changed by what had happened to me lately, but there was no mistaking the truth: I was changed forever now.
After a few minutes, my phone buzzed. I dragged it out of my crossbody bag, then checked its screen. It was Danny calling.
“You might want to get down here,” he said when I answered.
“Down to the Sproutes playhouse? For rehearsals?”
My bodyguard buddy gave an affirmative sound but no further details about what was going on. “Gotta run. See you soon.”
I glanced at my dash clock. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
* * *
By the time I arrived at the theater, Danny’s call made sense. First of all, I couldn’t park. In fact, I could barely approach the venue for Albany’s sold-out holiday show at all. That was because Sproutes’s charmingly decorated downtown was thronged with what appeared to be gathering protesters.
I sized up the situation, then changed tactics. A few streets over, I was able to park my rental car and climb out. As I did, I noticed several more Sproutesians heading toward Main Street. They carried signs but hadn’t yet adopted the official protest posture—they were laughing and smiling, as though they were about to attend a music festival or summertime street fair.
I puzzled over that as I made my way toward the theater, edging between clumps of protesters. Most of them seemed to be student age—college freshmen or maybe high-school students.
BRING BACK THE NUTCRACKER! one of the signs read.
WE DON’T WANT CHRISTMAS IN CRAZYTOWN! said another.
Okay, then. I understood what the protest was about.
This jibed with what I’d read in the Sproutes Sentinel, at least from the faction of residents who hadn’t wanted their beloved production to be canceled this year. In fact, I saw there were now slightly older Sproutesians among the protesters. A few of them had children with them. Little girls wore tiaras and were dressed up in spangled ballerina costumes beneath their coats.
I found myself below the theater’s dazzling marquee, being shoved from all sides. Chants rang out against Albany’s musical.
It was a mostly peaceful event, but there was strength in numbers. It felt as though the crowd was gathering energy.
“Everyone, please!” a feminine voice rang out, amplified through a bullhorn. “Let’s keep this Christmassy, all right?”
I half expected the protesters to launch into a holiday carol. Instead, they became louder. More animated and forceful.
I’ll admit, I was nonplussed. Who knew that a homegrown production of The Nutcracker could engender such loyalty?
Although, it occurred to me, those cute mini ballerina wannabes and their parents would be missing what was likely an annual holiday tradition this year, so I felt sympathetic.
Curiously, I turned and looked for the woman I’d heard through the bullhorn. Hmm. I’d seen her before, I realized.
Once I remembered where, everything became clear to me: the perfectly timed opposition to Christmas in Crazytown, the largely student crowd, and the real purpose of this protest, too. Because that wasn’t just any Christmas-loving bullhorn holder I caught sight of on the other side of the sidewalk.
That was Albany’s former high school English teacher—the very one who’d been targeted so mercilessly by all those ugly online memes a few months ago. Apparently, she hadn’t been deterred by those malicious Internet attacks—or at least, I estimated, her past and current students were undeterred.
Decisively, I maneuvered in her direction. It was time to finally meet Donna Brown—full-time English teacher and part-time Sproutes playhouse director.
She looked ready to fight to the end to bring back The Nutcracker . . . and everyone knew that would require ridding Sproutes of Christmas in Crazytown first.
Thirteen
Once I’d gotten close enough to Donna Brown to see her face clearly, I thought I realized what was going on. A few minutes’ conversation with her inside the Sproutes theater confirmed it.
“I’m just so overwhelmed!” the playhouse director told me inside the ornate lobby. “I swear, I never meant for any of this to happen! I came down here today to try to calm everyone down.”
“Well, no worries, then!” I said cheeringly. I nodded to the small crowd, still milling around beyond the theater’s decorated-for-the-season windows. “Everyone seems peaceful.”
In fact, they seemed positively upbeat, for a protest.
“Do you really think so?” Donna’s gaze looked apprehensive.
I nodded. I felt for her; I truly did. She reminded me of a few of my clients—particularly the ones who were small-business entrepreneurs. They were perpetually overextended, juggling too many responsibilities and feeling they were doing nothing well.
As the playhouse director and a teacher, Donna Brown could easily feel the same way. Compared with the photos I’d seen of her, she appeared much older than I would have expected. She was probably only sixty, but her face seemed drawn and creased with worry. Her movements were jittery; her hands restless.
I guessed months of online bullying could be tough on a person—especially one who, like Donna, seemed so delicate. Behind her eyeglasses, her blue eyes were teary and hesitant.
Beneath her knee-length puffer coat, I glimpsed her sequined holiday sweater, dressy trousers, and snow boots. She wore gloves, so I didn’t spy a wedding ring, but I knew from my research that she was unmarried. Her dog had shed on her coat; an unraveled thread on its hem told me she’d been wearing that garment a long time. Maybe she couldn’t afford to replace it?
“What I don’t understand is how things got to this point.” I gave her a steady encouraging look. “You have a real fan club out there! But I thought you agreed to cancel The Nutcracker?”
The Peppermint Mocha Murder Page 15
