Murder Melts in Your Mouth

by Nancy Martin

  “Crewe,” I said, “I think I might faint with ecstasy.”

  “Steady,” he advised. “The key to doing a foodie show is to pace yourself. Don’t sample everything right away, because you’ll be too full to enjoy the pièce de résistance.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Let’s head to the stage. I think Elena should be finishing up her presentation about now.”

  We took a right turn past a bower of trees and flowers decorated to look like a chocolate lover’s Garden of Eden. A miniature mountain was decorated with flickering candles and strewn rose petals, with a path of candy bars leading upward to a giant claw-foot bathtub filled with warm chocolate. A fountain of creamy chocolate flowed into the tub from a statue of a naked man pouring from a ewer.

  The tub had been painted with the Zanzibar logo.

  And reclining in the tub—with the cascade of chocolate running over her bare toes—was none other than my sister Emma.

  “Good Lord,” I said to her. “Are you completely naked?”

  Chapter Eleven

  From her prone position in the bathtub, Emma lifted a mug in a toast. It was supposed to look like a cup of hot chocolate, but I was willing to bet she was drinking vodka.

  With a woozy grin, she said, “If you want to see a riot break out, I’ll stand up.”

  Crewe stared into the tub. “That doesn’t look very sanitary.”

  “You’re not supposed to drink it.” She splashed her chocolate bath. “You’re supposed to fantasize. It’s some kind of Zanzibar spa potion.”

  I said, “I should have known you weren’t giving candy bars to kiddies.”

  “Hell, no. This is an R-rated chocolate show. There’s a woman around the corner who makes lollipops in very interesting shapes, Sis. You ought to buy a few dozen to give your stuffy friends next Christmas.”

  Emma didn’t seem to mind the throng of people who stared at her as they moved toward the other exhibits. In fact, she seemed to enjoy her role. She smiled broadly and waved to everyone.

  Suddenly furious with her, I snatched the cup out of her hand. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Hey! Give that back!”

  “Can’t you think about someone else for once?”

  “Who?” she demanded.

  “Your baby! You’ve been given a miracle, Emma. A blessing! And you can’t see that?”

  “Dammit, Nora, give me my drink.”

  “No.”

  “This is none of your business.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “But you can spend one hour not drinking, and after that, another hour. And maybe a few more hours until you sober up and think straight about the child you’re bringing into the world.”

  “Why the hell do you care?”

  “You know damn well why,” I said.

  “Screw you.”

  “He already did,” I shot back just as crudely. “But apparently he prefers you. The least you can do is take care of his baby.”

  Emma let out a string of curses that turned heads, but I was unmoved. I walked away with her drink in hand.

  Crewe caught up with me. “Wow, Nora, I’ve never seen you so…so…”

  “Pissed off?” I said. “Well, stick around. If she comes after me, there’s going to be a fistfight.”

  Even though I was only half-kidding, Crewe looked horrified.

  A passing waitress offered us dark-chocolate-dipped strawberries from a boutique patisserie in the suburbs. Crewe turned her down. I grabbed one. I needed to self-medicate, and chocolate was the nearest sedative.

  “I’ll talk while you eat,” Crewe said as we inched into the crowd. “This morning I spoke with some of the reporters who are covering Hoyt Cavendish’s death.”

  “Mmph?” I swallowed. “What did you learn?”

  “First of all, there’s some kind of news blackout going on. The police are controlling all information about the investigation—and I mean serious control. The DA has promised somebody will get fired if there’s a leak. I thought the radio silence was because Hoyt was a powerful and influential man. But the reporters say this feels different—like the police are holding back something really big.”

  I wished I’d thought to get an extra napkin. I licked chocolate from my thumb. “Any theories about what the big information might be?”

  “That maybe somebody important is a suspect.”

  “Crewe, the building was crawling with Philadelphia fat cats. The important suspect could be half a dozen people, even Lexie.”

  “The police can pinpoint nearly all of the big names at the time Hoyt went off the balcony. Only a few were alone or can’t explain exactly where they were in the building.”

  “Not just the building,” I said. “Scooter Zanzibar—remember?”

  “Yeah, he looked guilty as sin when he arrived at the restaurant.”

  “He called me this morning.”

  Crewe stopped dead. “Chad Zanzibar called you?” He couldn’t control the astonishment in his voice. “No offense, Nora, but what for?”

  “He wants to follow Michael around. To research his next acting role.”

  Crewe laughed. “I can see Mick giving acting tips! What did you tell the kid?”

  “That I have no contact with anyone in organized crime.”

  In my handbag, my phone rang. When I picked up, Michael’s voice said in my ear, “Hey. Where are you?”

  “At the convention center.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s all good,” he said, soothing.

  But he hung up without explanation.

  Crewe guessed the identity of my caller by the expression on my face. “So much for no contact with anyone in organized crime.”

  The serendipitous timing amused Crewe, but I tucked my phone back into my bag and frowned. “That was strange. Michael’s coming here in half an hour.”

  I didn’t want to see him. Not with my sister around.

  Crewe didn’t notice and gathered my arm in his hand. “That gives us enough time to talk to Elena Zanzibar. There she is.” He pointed.

  A mob of chocolate lovers had come to a standstill in front of a small stage where beautiful models in slinky spa bathrobes held containers of various products. Elena Zanzibar herself stood with a microphone in her hand. She wore a gold lamé formal gown that sparkled in the bright lights. A luxurious chocolate-colored wrap encased her shoulders. Her hair was precariously tall, and her makeup more colorful than ever.

  In the audience sat a dozen similarly coiffed ladies—Elena’s fan club. One carried a hand-lettered sign: We’ll do anything for you!

  Elena was giving a rambling speech. Before edging closer to listen, I decided I’d better ditch Emma’s drink, so I headed over to a strategically placed trash can. As I prepared to toss the cup, I took a quick sniff of the contents. To be certain, I took a small sip.

  And discovered it wasn’t booze after all, but plain ginger ale.

  Emma had been drinking nothing more potent than soda pop, I realized with a pang of guilt. Maybe she’d been sober all along.

  “Oh, dear,” I said.

  Crewe looked around at me. “Something wrong?”

  “Something right,” I said. “For once.”

  There wasn’t time to go apologize to my sister. Elena’s presentation came to a conclusion, and the crowd broke into polite applause. The fan club jumped to their feet, clapping with enthusiasm. Elena cast them a strained smile. Two television crews had been filming her remarks, but they shut off their lights as the applause died down.

  A tall man wearing stage makeup took the microphone from Elena. “Don’t forget to come back Friday night when we feature the great Jacque Petite—star of the Chocolate Festival!”

  More applause, but most of the crowd dispersed. Given the choice of free chocolate or the autograph of an elderly cosmetics executive, everyone seemed eager to move off in search of the free samples. T
he man with the microphone gently helped Elena off the stage.

  Crewe and I worked our way close to the autograph table and soon found ourselves in front of Elena as she signed head shots of herself. The photo, I noticed, had been taken at least twenty years ago.

  “My dear Nora!” She pushed the remaining head shots aside with hands that were encased in opera gloves. “Surely you understand what a sacrifice I’ve made to come here. I wanted to stay at home, but my VP of PR insisted I honor my commitment to the new spa line.”

  “I’m sorry you’re unwell,” I said. “You’re very brave to come tonight.”

  I introduced Crewe, and Elena tugged her gloves higher before extending her hand to Crewe. “Hello. I knew your father.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Zanzibar.”

  Crewe’s father had been a notorious philanderer, a subject that Crewe found painful, so he switched subjects with the ease of a man who often steered conversation away from unpleasant memories. He said, “I was very sorry to hear of yesterday’s tragedy.”

  She nodded, forlorn. All the energy she had shown the previous day had been sapped away. This evening Elena looked haggard beneath her makeup. Her eyeliner was smeared, and she had chewed off half of her usually perfect lipstick. In a shaken voice, she said, “Would you be so kind as to escort me to my car?”

  “Of course. Would you prefer we call a doctor?”

  As best she could, Elena tried to collect herself. “A doctor can’t fix a broken heart.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Hoyt’s death is a terrible loss.”

  “Terrible loss?” she cried, losing the last shreds of self-control. “I’ll tell you about terrible loss! The bastard stole nearly fifty million dollars from me.”

  I gasped. “He stole from you?”

  “I thought he was my friend! I thought I was helping him by giving him my affairs to manage. But he was stealing me blind. I’m broke!”

  “Surely not completely—” Crewe began.

  Elena’s chin trembled. “My grandson brought me all the facts and figures last night. For years Hoyt steadily drained all my accounts.”

  “I’m shocked,” I said.

  “You and me both.” She tried to look haughty, but managed only to look frightened. “How can I possibly help my grandson’s movie now? He’s so angry with me.” She tugged at her gloves again. “Nora, didn’t your grandmother sell off her jewelry to keep your family going when things went to pot?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “You must give me a contact—the name of someone who can help me.”

  “You’re upset,” I soothed. “Everyone’s upset. It’s too soon to make important decisions.”

  “I must raise cash immediately!” Her gloves slipped lower, and I saw bruises on the fleshy part of her arm. But she was too distressed to notice. “My grandson doesn’t deserve to have his future ruined this way. I was devastated by Hoyt’s death, but now this! A violation of trust!”

  “I spoke with Brandi Schmidt this afternoon, and she—”

  “Brandi Schmidt! That hussy!”

  Crewe cleared his throat, and with an inclination of his head indicated that the television news crew still loitered nearby.

  Elena got the message. But instead of shutting up, she pulled the two of us to the edge of the stage to continue our discussion. There, she said, “I know I can trust the both of you when I reveal that Hoyt and I had an understanding. We were going to marry later this year.”

  “I had no idea, Mrs. Zanzibar.”

  “We wanted to keep it quiet.” She summoned her dignity. “I’m very glad of that. Especially now that things have turned out to be so ugly.”

  Crewe murmured, “I’m very sorry for your—uh—loss.”

  “My point is,” she said, “that nasty Brandi Schmidt was probably milking Hoyt for all he was worth. And he was milking me! For once, she’s not the victim here. I am!”

  Elena’s handlers finally noticed her distress and swooped over to take charge of her. She introduced me to her assistant, a tall, chic woman wearing a corporate suit and a capable expression. A pin shaped as the Zanzibar logo flashed on her lapel.

  Elena tried to calm down. “This is Cherry. She’s going to spend the night with me. Isn’t she a saint?”

  Cherry shook my hand with a crushing grip, then Crewe’s. “You shouldn’t be alone, Mrs. Z.”

  I was glad to see Cherry help Elena into a golf cart and whisk her off the exposition floor. Elena needed someone she could trust close by.

  “Well, well,” said Crewe. “Elena was going to marry Hoyt Cavendish?”

  “Question is,” I said, “when did Chad discover Hoyt was stealing from his cash cow? Before or after the murder?”

  “And did Chad blame his own grandmother for losing the money to Hoyt?”

  “You saw her bruises?”

  “Hard to miss,” Crewe said. “Even with the gloves. Do you think that little shit beat his grandmother?”

  We looked at each other, thinking over what we’d just seen and heard.

  “I’d better go after her,” I said. “If she’s in danger, she needs our help.”

  “I think she’s safe for the moment.” Crewe flexed his hand, as if remembering Cherry’s strong handshake. “Her assistant looks as if she could rip Scooter’s head off.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I’m starting to see why Lexie was so upset last weekend.”

  “You think she discovered Hoyt embezzled money from Elena’s accounts?”

  We exchanged speculative looks, and Crewe said, “There were a lot of clients who attended that meeting in Lexie’s office.”

  “Dollars to doughnuts, I bet Hoyt stole money from all of them. No wonder Lexie went ballistic.”

  “Come on.” Crewe edged away. “If I can’t find Jacque Petite, I’ve got one more chocolate purveyor I want to see tonight.”

  We wound our way along the crowded aisles until we arrived at a double display with the Amazon Chocolate Company sign hanging from some faux jungle trees. The company mascot, a stuffed black panther, peered down at us from the fake foliage. On a large screen, a video showed the spectacular scenery of a South American cocoa plantation.

  Various Amazon employees stood behind the tables dressed in safari-style khakis and chatting up passersby. Although the company provided the raw ingredients for making chocolate, they were distributing small squares of designer chocolate wrapped in foil and stamped with the panther image.

  Nowhere among the Amazon people did I see Tierney Cavendish.

  “I figured Tierney would be here.” Crewe sounded disappointed. “It’s his big night. The first public appearance of his company.”

  On the video screen, handsome Tierney appeared, chatting with local farmers. He frowned and nodded with sympathy while one child pointed at bulldozers flattening a swath of trees.

  “Tierney’s got a great idea,” Crewe said in my ear. “Most of the world’s chocolate comes from West Africa, where children and slave labor are often used to harvest the cocoa beans. But Tierney’s working near the Amazon River where the cocoa is grown under the jungle canopy by indigenous farmers who don’t want to grow drug crops. He’s saving the jungle, fighting the war on drugs and making a profit for everyone all at the same time.”

  “He really looks like a hero.”

  The video screen changed to footage of sacks of cocoa beans clearly marked with the panther illustration. Smiling workers loaded them onto cargo ships.

  “But he needs capital to get the company stabilized,” Crewe said. “I talked to one of the business-page reporters today. Tierney’s looking for investors to keep Amazon Chocolate going until the next season’s crop is produced.”

  I remembered the scene in the restaurant where it appeared local bankers hadn’t liked Tierney’s business proposition.

  “But his father’s death gives Tierney a reason to stay away tonight. Surely nobody truly expects him to appear.”
>
  “Or,” Crewe said, lowering his voice, “is he guilty of killing his father? Why didn’t Hoyt finance Tierney’s company? Especially if he was stealing millions from Elena and probably other clients, too?”

  Keeping an eye out for Tierney Cavendish, we made a quick circle of the Chocolate Festival. Crewe made cursory notes for his piece on artisan chocolates. He was recognized by a few vendors, who pressed samples on him. By the time we were ready to leave, I was half-nauseated from all the chocolate I’d nibbled—either that, or the confusion of my thoughts concerning Hoyt’s death.

  As we were descending the escalator, my phone rang again, and Michael said, “I’m outside. Look for Lexie’s car.”

  Crewe and I hurried out into the warm evening air, and we saw Michael standing at the corner alongside Lexie’s black BMW. Dusk had arrived, and the streetlight over his shoulder came on just at that moment. Michael wore a dark business suit with a white shirt underneath—his go-to-court clothes.

  He caught sight of us, and I saw a flash of concern cross his face when he realized I was with Crewe. He walked toward us and met us halfway down the block.

  I said, “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Lexie,” he said shortly, without greeting. “She asked me to pick up her car and head over to the Roundhouse to take her home.”

  Without a word, Crewe started toward the BMW.

  Michael caught Crewe’s arm and stopped him. “Wait. She’s—not in great shape.”

  “Is she hurt?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. She’s on the edge, though. And she wants to go home, but reporters have staked out her house, so I can’t take her there.”

  No, Lexie Paine seen in the company of Big Frankie Abruzzo’s son would not be good publicity.

  “That’s not a problem,” Crewe said. “I’ll take her to my place.”

  “Sorry, Crewe,” Michael said, “but she doesn’t want to see you right now. Or anybody else, really. But I don’t think she ought to be alone. So, Nora—”