In Cold Chocolate

by Dorothy St. James

  “I’m not ignoring them. I have a plan.”

  “A plan?” The look on the detective’s face was a visual definition of the word skeptical—brows bunched together, corners of his lips drooping, forehead crinkled like a wrinkled cotton sheet

  “I mean it,” I said. “Chief Byrd is even on board with this.” Albeit reluctantly. “We’re keeping the two threatening notes under wraps so that if someone in the community starts talking about them, we’ll be able to track the gossip back to the culprit.” I held up a finger because I could see he was going to cut me off. “And that person may also be the killer who so cleverly framed Jody.”

  Stella woof-woofed her agreement but amazingly didn’t jump up from where I’d told her to sit and stay. Impressed, I tossed her another bacon treat.

  “You’re telling me you received two separate threats from two different people? When did this happened?”

  “This morning,” I admitted.

  He drew a long, deep breath, but that didn’t seem to calm him. “Penn. Penn. Penn.” Each utterance of my name sounded like a new and more forceful curse. He started to pace. “You should have called me. You know you’re getting threats because you’re stirring the hornets’ nest Cassidy Jones had created.”

  “I’ve got a plan for that too. The first chance I get, I’m going to reassure everyone that I’m not looking to expose anyone’s secrets. I’m simply looking for the person who framed Jody.”

  “No one framed Jody,” he sounded angry about it.

  “Yes, someone did. And whoever did it is smart and had planned Cassidy’s murder far in advance. This wasn’t a crime of passion, not by a long shot. It was done by someone who is cold and calculating. It was done by someone who knew about Jody’s crazy reaction to lights on the beach, who knew about her relationship with Cassidy, and who knew that the turtle team was going to be keeping vigil at that particular nest that night.”

  The frown on his lips deepened. “Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?”

  “No, sir. Of course not. I’m trying to tell you something you might not know because you live in downtown Charleston and not out here on Camellia Beach.”

  “I swear, Penn—”

  I never did get to hear what was going to come next. I liked to think he was about to swear that he’d never met a civilian sleuth with such sharp instincts. But at that very moment, Troubadour, Bertie’s hairless cat, let out an ear-piercing yeow as he charged out of Bertie’s bedroom. He looked like a blur as he darted across the room and made a beeline straight for the detective who was standing near the open door.

  A shadow appeared on the floorboards of the porch beyond the door. I half expected to see either Harley or Gavin to walk by on his way to their apartment or to pause to say hello. Having one of them pass by would also explain Troubadour’s sudden burst of energy.

  I didn’t have a chance to look outside. As soon as Troubadour appeared, Stella jumped up, breaking her stay command. Barking as if the world had just caught fire, she ran at the kitty, stopping only because she’d reached the end of her leash. No amount of treats was going to deter her from what she saw as her duty to keep her nemesis (the cat) from getting close to (well) anyone. She tugged and jumped and made a noisy menace of herself.

  Troubadour, unimpressed by this display, growled low in his throat. He swatted Stella on the nose before continuing on his path toward the door. This only made Stella even angrier. With a growly bark, she tried again to chase after the platinum-colored kitty.

  My attempts to rein in her bad behavior had absolutely no effect. I ended up doing exactly what Lidia had warned me not to do. I scooped Stella into my arms. My frustrated pup chomped down on my wrist as I carried her into my bedroom. I gently set her down, pried her mouth from my wrist, and provided her with a handful of treats before closing the bedroom door.

  “Sorry about that,” I said when I returned.

  Troubadour was rubbing himself against the detective’s leg and purring loudly.

  “I see you’re a cat person.” I peeked out the door. The mysterious shadow was gone.

  “Actually, I prefer dogs.” Gibbons grimaced down at Troubadour, but didn’t do anything to stop the kitty from rubbing all over his pants.

  I was sure I’d seen the shadow of person approaching the open door. “Did you see anyone walk by?” I asked him.

  “No.” He suddenly looked suspicious. “Why?”

  I peeked out the door again. “When Troubadour came running toward you, I thought I saw someone standing outside on the porch.”

  He peered outside. “There’s no one out here.”

  “No, there isn’t. But I’m sure I saw someone.” Had someone been lurking outside the door listening? Was someone still out there waiting for me to be alone? I hugged myself and shivered.

  Gibbons stepped fully outside and leaned over the railing and looked left and right. I didn’t have to ask. I knew he didn’t see anything. If someone had been there, he (or she) was long gone now.

  I glanced at the clock. It was nearly six o’clock, a few minutes before the shop’s closing time. I hadn’t meant to stay in the apartment so long. “Can we talk while I walk back to the shop?” I asked. “I don’t want Bertie to be alone at closing.”

  “I agree. If you’ve been receiving threats, neither of you should be alone anywhere,” he warned.

  I had to herd Troubadour back into the apartment before I could lock up and leave. The cat hissed at me, twice. But he finally relented. With his nose in the air and his tail held straight, he walked back into the apartment as if it that was what he’d planned to do along.

  I locked up and walked down the steps with Gibbons. “You were saying that Chief Byrd had called you?” I said.

  “He did.” He huffed. “He called to tell me your shop has been robbed … again. That it’d happened this morning? Was that before or after the threatening notes appeared?”

  “The theft happened after the incident with the notes,” I said as we reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Was the theft like the other one?”

  “Yes. Whoever is doing it only takes my salted sea turtles.”

  “The turtles are a new offering in your shop, isn’t that right?”

  “They are.” My tone immediately lightened as I talked about my favorite subject: chocolate. “It’s one of my original recipes. Bertie helped me develop it since I still haven’t mastered all aspects of the candy-making process. They’re caramel with—”

  “I know what’s in them.” He patted his rounded belly. “I’ve eaten more than my fair share. Do you have any ideas why someone would want to steal them specifically?” he asked.

  “Because they’re delicious?” After I unlocked the back door, we entered the shop and headed down a long, dimly lit hallway that passed the kitchen, the office, the storage room, and opened up into the storefront.

  “Everything in your shop is delicious.” He patted his belly again. “It has to be something else.”

  Bertie was walking the last of the evening’s customers to the door. She locked the front door behind them before turning to us. “Those milkshakes are too much work to make and serve. They’re attracting too many people. My bones are tired from running around in a constant manic rush,” she complained as she rubbed a hand up and down her leg. “We’re a chocolate shop, not one of your northern malt shops.”

  “I’m from the Midwest,” I reminded her even though she knew very well where I was from. I apologized for leaving her to handle the afternoon crowd by herself. I hated seeing her hurting. I should have never let her talk me into leaving to call Granny Mae. “Detective Gibbons is here because he heard about the stolen chocolates and wants to talk to us about them.”

  “Frank Gibbons.” Bertie put her hands on her hips. “You’ve told me on more than one occasion that you’re a homicide detective and that petty crimes like a little theft mean nothing to you. What are you really doing here?”

  “I’m sure it’s his
fondness for our chocolates that has him alarmed that someone might be taking them before he can eat them.” I fixed a small plate of chocolates and set it on the table closest to him.

  He frowned at the plate. “No turtles?”

  “The thief keeps taking them,” I said.

  “We’re going to be up late again tonight making yet another batch,” Bertie said. “Costing us a fortune to keep losing them.”

  “Have you considered not making them anymore?” Gibbons asked before biting into one of Bertie’s sea salt chocolates.

  I stifled a yawn. “I’m seriously considering it right now.”

  “We may have to stop making them. Although they’re simply my sea salt chocolate caramels with some pecans tossed in,” Bertie said, “they’re made with more of our Amar chocolate than most of our chocolates. And as you already you know we only have a limited supply of the special Amar chocolate.”

  “We pour them into a cute baby sea turtle chocolate mold,” I added. “They’re adorable.”

  “And quite good,” the detective said, patting his belly again.

  “The special flavor Amar chocolate infuses into all of our chocolates is what keeps our customers coming back.” I started wiping down tables. As I worked, I started to agree with Bertie. Adding milkshakes to the menu definitely made more work for us. Not only did we have to run around to mix the drinks and then serve them, we also had to contend with the sticky mess they made in the shop, and a sink filled with glasses that needed to be scrubbed.

  “Bertie’s special sea salt chocolate caramels still outsell anything else we offer,” I explained. “And whenever we make any of our wine infused truffles using just our Amar chocolate, we sell out of that within the hour.”

  He nodded as he ate one of my special spicy bonbon fires.

  “I’d like to kill whoever is taking them. They’re a mess of work to make,” Bertie complained.

  “Speaking of homicide, did Harriett help you track down our mystery Muumuu Woman?” I asked him.

  “You know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.” His hand moved toward the plate of chocolates again. “And I have no intention of encouraging you. The threatening notes should be incentive enough to keep you far, far away from anything that involves Cassidy Jones.”

  “Threatening notes?” Bertie howled. “What in Sam Hill are you talking about Frank Gibbons? Someone has been threatening my Penn, and I don’t know about it?”

  “I don’t know much about it either,” Gibbons grumbled. “Hank didn’t tell me anything about it, even though he supposedly knows all about them. He does know about them, doesn’t he?” he asked me directly. His right eye twitched before the bushy brow above it rose up toward his hairline.

  “Yes, he knows all about the notes. He has them in his office. I already told you why we decided to keep it quiet with everyone.” I was sorry I hadn’t told Bertie. Not telling her about the threats had eaten at me all day. “I should have told you, Bertie. It was wrong to keep you in the dark about them.”

  “You’re darn right that you should have told her … and me,” Gibbons said. “After I leave here, I’m going to go straight to Hank’s office to take a look at them for myself.”

  “I just might come with you,” Bertie said.

  “I think you should.” Gibbons nodded emphatically. “The way I read the situation, just by being in this shop you’re in just as much danger as Penn.”

  He plucked one of the dark chocolate cherry cream truffles from the plate. “Look, you didn’t hear this from me.” He rolled the delicately decorated ball around between his beefy fingers. “I’m only telling you this because I hope it’ll convince you leave the investigating to the police. Ballistics came back. The bullet that killed Cassidy came out of the gun Jody had in her hand when you and Althea found her.”

  “Which gun?” I asked.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Which gun did it come from? The registered gun or the one with the registration number scratched off?”

  He leaned toward me. “Who told you that?”

  “Harley. Did the bullet come from the gun that was registered to Jody or not?”

  He ate the truffle he’d been playing with before answering. “It doesn’t matter. Jody was holding both guns. She shot you with the same gun that killed Cassidy.”

  He refused to say more, but that was fine. What he’d told me was all I’d needed to hear.

  Jody may have been holding both guns, but if she’d shot Cassidy with the gun registered to her, Gibbons would have told me. He would have crowed about it as if that fact alone would prove to me her guilt. And it probably would.

  But he didn’t tell me that. And Jody has maintained all along that she’d picked up the other gun from the ground, and that it wasn’t hers.

  The fact that nearly everyone on the island knew how she’d shot out porch lights in the past, the fact that Bailey Grassi had been leaving his lights on for days now, and the fact that everyone on the island knew Cassidy Jones didn’t have it in him to be faithful to anyone in his life was pretty good evidence in my book that someone had set Jody up to take the blame for Cassidy’s death. Leaving the gun in the sand only helped build the case against her. Even if she hadn’t picked up the gun, the police would have found it and blamed her for tossing it away.

  Whoever had planned Cassidy’s death was smart. Scary smart. And that same scary smart killer now had me in his (or her) sights.

  That realization hit me like a frying pan to the head. Trying to save Jody from serving time for a murder she didn’t commit might get me killed. I needed to be smart. I needed to think carefully before I did anything. But how did I go about being smarter than the killer when I didn’t know anything about why someone had gone to such lengths to set up Cassidy’s murder?

  “You’re right,” I said to Gibbons. “I’m going to have to start doing things differently. I’m going to have to act with great care from now on.” And I needed to act quickly because I was running out of time if I wanted to get Jody out of jail before Thursday.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I know this has nothing to do with Cassidy’s murder, but I’m dying to know,” I said to Althea the next morning. I’d joined her at the pier to help with the early morning survey of the island’s half-dozen remaining turtle nests.

  “You’re talking about Harriett?” Althea tied her wide-rimmed sweetgrass hat’s silky ribbon her under her chin.

  “Yes. Can you tell me what happened between her and my mother? And why did Harriett go out of her way to avoid any contact with Cassidy?”

  Althea looked around before saying, “Not everyone knows about this. I think Mama knew because Florence went blabbing to Mabel who talked to Mama.”

  I nodded, even more eager to hear the scandal.

  “Harriett cheated on her husband,” Althea whispered.

  “She cheated?”

  Althea nodded. “From what I’d heard, it was a brief affair. A mistake.”

  “That’s it?” It felt kind of like a letdown.

  “Florence found out about it and had Harriett blacklisted from the social scene. I don’t think Florence ever liked Harriett. I think she was jealous of the attention Harriett received because her husband was mayor of Camellia Beach. Florence’s husband had run for mayor of the City of Charleston years before this all happened, and he was soundly beaten.” We walked down the beach in silence.

  “I suppose that’s why Harriett is acting so protective of Muumuu Woman,” I said. “She doesn’t want to see anyone go through what happened to her.”

  “That’s probably true,” Althea answered.

  “It’s a nuisance, though. Harriett should know that I wouldn’t do anything to hurt anyone.”

  “She should.”

  Although the sun hadn’t yet risen above the horizon, the day already felt hot and sticky. “Isn’t it supposed to cool off at night when the sun isn’t shining?” I complained. “Gracious, it feels warmer this morning than
it did yesterday afternoon.”

  “Welcome to August in the South.” Althea was already fanning herself. “The temperature is probably cooler right now if you looked at a thermometer. The air just feels hotter and wetter because the wind isn’t blowing like it was yesterday.”

  Althea took the red Wisconsin Badgers baseball cap off my head. She dipped it in the waves and handed the soggy thing back to me.

  “What did you do that for?” I cried. Granny Mae, a professor at the university, had given me the cap for Christmas last year.

  “Put it on,” Althea said. She then chuckled when I sniffed my saltwater soaked hat. “The water will keep you from overheating. Let’s go.”

  The soggy hat did help keep my head cool as we continued down the beach.

  Althea seemed pleased with how the first two nests looked, but that didn’t ease her worry. She continued on down the beach at a quick pace. “In the history of our island’s turtle watch efforts, which spans more than thirty years, the team has never lost a nest to poaching. Astronomically high tides and tropical storms can devastate our nests. And I know some years in the past the island has had a terrible time with predators. But we haven’t lost a nest due to theft. Our team has been vigilant … at least they were before I took over as team leader.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing you’ve done wrong. Lidia and Harriett both support you.”

  Althea didn’t argue, but I could tell by the way she kept her gaze locked on the dunes that she blamed herself.

  By the time we’d walked at least two miles, sweat had dampened my clothes. I’d worn a one-piece swimsuit with an athletic skirt and had a towel slung over my shoulders. After we’d finished, I planned to take a long swim in the ocean to cool off. I also hoped to use the time in the water to help get my thoughts in order. But right now, I couldn’t stop thinking about poor Harriett.

  “Because Harriett cheated, Florence got her blacklisted from Charleston Society?” I asked as we walked side-by-side through the shallow surf. “How did Florence even know Harriett had strayed?”