by Penny Pike
At seven p.m. the night before the festival was to begin, I stood in Aunt Abby’s kitchen, dressed in black slacks and a black silk blouse, waiting for my aunt and Dillon to finish dressing so we could head for the preview party. Reina Patel had invited the judges and contestants to a private soiree at the Maritime Museum, so we could all get acquainted, taste the chocolate contest entries, and celebrate the hard work it took to participate in the Chocolate Festival.
I hadn’t wanted to go, knowing Jake would be there, but Aunt Abby insisted, and I couldn’t let her down. However, I planned to keep a low profile, hence the black outfit, and hopefully go unnoticed not only by Jake, but also by Polly Montgomery. I was worried if she found out I was part of Aunt Abby’s team, she’d vote for anyone but my aunt.
“I’m so nervous!” Aunt Abby announced as she entered the kitchen, little Basil scuffling at her feet. She was fiddling with an earring, trying to insert it into her pierced left ear. It was a tiny silver spoon that went perfectly with the tiny silver fork that dangled from her right ear. She wore a pink floral blouse over slinky pink pants, with matching pink heels and a pink shrug over her shoulders. I’d never seen her so dressed up. She looked like a strawberry ice cream confection.
Dillon sauntered in behind her, this time rat-free. To my surprise, he’d changed out of his usual slacker garb and was wearing what looked like brand-new black jeans and a collared button-down black shirt I didn’t know he owned. He’d even added some product to his normally porcupine hair in an attempt to tame it, and he held a white tie in his hand as if it were a snake. His only concession to his normal style were his red Converse athletic shoes.
“Mom, why are you nervous?” he asked his mother.
Aunt Abby and I stared at him, openmouthed.
“What?” he asked.
“You look . . . nice!” I blurted.
“My handsome son!” Aunt Abby added, grinning. “With a tie!”
Dillon actually blushed. “Chill out. It’s just a costume. I’m going as a waiter to blend in and do a little eavesdropping at the party.”
“Clever,” I said. “All you need is one of those half-aprons those avant-garde servers wear.”
“You mean, like this?” he said, pulling one of Aunt Abby’s aprons from a drawer and folding it over before tying it around his waist.
“Perfect!”
“So, Mom. What are you nervous about? The competition?”
“No, no. I plan to ace that.” Aunt Abby checked her reflection in her shiny kitchen toaster. “It’s this damn party! I hate these fancy froufrou things.”
“Well, you look adorable,” I said. “Cute earrings. And with that outfit you’re going to kill at this party as well as at the competition.”
She shrugged. “I’m only going so I can chat up the judges like all the other contestants are probably going to do. Thanks to Dillon, I know something about each of them, so I can carry on a decent conversation.”
Dillon had been researching the judges and contestants on the Internet and filling his mother in on what he’d found. I doubted any of his information would help her win the contest—the proof would be in the pudding, or in Aunt Abby’s case, the whoopie pies—but I supposed a former cafeteria lady could use all the help she could get.
Dillon turned to me and frowned. “Why are you dressed like me?”
“I’m not going as a waiter, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “I’m just keeping it simple. We’re only backup players in Aunt Abby’s gastronomic theater, remember?”
Dillon shook his head. “Copycat.”
“Dork,” I said under my breath.
“Time to go!” Aunt Abby announced before we started a food fight.
I put on my black linen jacket and led the way. We would have taken my VW, but the backseat was a little snug. Dillon’s dirt bike was out of the question, so we opted for Aunt Abby’s Prius. I drove us to the Maritime Museum on Beach Street, located between Aquatic Park and Ghirardelli Square in the Russian Hill area of San Francisco.
It would be hard to miss the museum, even on a foggy night. The Works Progress Administration had funded the construction of the Art Deco Moderne building back in 1939 as a public bathhouse, but today it was part of the San Francisco Maritime National Historic Park Service. From the outside, the museum looked like a ship, painted white with round portholes, two decks, and a naval flag at the top of the third story. The inside had been renovated several times and currently featured colorful murals from the WPA era by artist Hilaire Hiler. The building included a steamship room, showing the evolution of sailing power, photo murals of the city’s early waterfront era, scrimshaw art and whaling weapons, and an intact shipboard radio and teletype.
I found parking on the street and squeezed the Toyota into a space between a Smart car and a Fiat to avoid valet parking. Tonight’s party was being held on the veranda overlooking the bay, so we entered through the gray double doors, held open by a man wearing a crisp naval uniform, and headed across the room and out the door. Outside, the area was filled with round tables covered in white tablecloths, each featuring centerpieces made of long-stemmed chocolate roses. I glanced at the spectacular view of sparkling yachts moored at Aquatic Park, and Alcatraz, Angel Island, and Tiburon beyond. Although the spring night was clear—unusual for San Francisco in any season—most of the guests still had on their suit jackets or elegant wraps against any sudden chill, as they drank from fancy wineglasses and champagne flutes to warm their insides. The conversations seemed animated—no doubt focused on the topic of chocolate. A three-piece jazz band played softly in one corner, mostly ignored by the attendees.
We checked in at the welcome table and found our name tags. I looked around for the bar and spotted it on the far side of the veranda. Before I could sprint over, Abby managed to swipe a drink from a passing waiter, then took a deep breath and headed into the crowd. Dillon, apparently forgetting he was dressed as a waiter, snagged a fancy-looking appetizer from another waiter, who frowned at him, and popped it in his mouth. I helped myself to what turned out to be a chocolate-dipped asparagus tip, which was oddly tasty. All I needed was something to wash it down with, like a giant glass of wine.
I made a beeline for the bar and surveyed the offerings. Besides the usual chardonnays and merlots, the choices included a chocolate red wine, a chocolate stout beer, a white chocolate champagne, and chocolate cordials in edible chocolate shot glasses. I opted for a chocolate chardonnay, took a sip, then felt hot breath on the back of my neck.
I whirled around to find Dillon standing right behind me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just getting a drink like you.”
“Well, don’t sneak up on me like that,” I said.
“Why so jumpy?” he asked.
“I’m not jumpy,” I argued. But I was, and I knew why.
Jake. Where was he?
I took the glass of wine from the bartender and stuffed a dollar into the tip jar. Dillon asked for the chocolate stout, garnering another eyeballing—from the bartender this time—which he ignored. After I took a long sip of my drink, I stepped back into the shadows to observe the crowd. Dillon joined me and began pointing out the various judges and contestants.
“How do you know who’s who without reading their name tags?” I asked, squinting to see if I could make out any names.
“Their pictures are in the program,” he said, holding up a folded piece of paper I had somehow missed. He handed it to me.
I took another mouthful of wine. The drink had a weird aftertaste of chocolate, but the alcohol was beginning to do its trick. I felt more relaxed with every gulp.
Dillon nodded to a man with dark curly hair and a Mediterranean complexion who was talking to a blond woman with her hair up in a twist, wearing an eye-catching red velvet gown.
“That’s Frankie N
udo,” Dillon whispered, as if worried someone might hear us over the animated conversations coming from the crowd. “He owns the Choco-Cheese truck.”
I glanced at the paper Dillon had given me and read Frankie Nudo’s short bio. Most of it I already knew, thanks to Dillon’s Internet sleuthing. But the program included something even Dillon hadn’t been able to discover—Frankie Nudo’s entry in the chocolate competition.
“Chocolate Goat Cheese Truffles?” I made a face. “That doesn’t sound good at all.” I studied the man a moment. While he seemed to be talking animatedly with the blond woman, his eyes darted around the room, as if he were looking for someone.
Dillon’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s the woman he’s talking to? Her back is to us.”
“Looks more like flirting to me,” I said. “She keeps leaning in and putting a hand on his arm. Get a load of that ring on her finger. Is that a diamond?” The sparkler on the woman’s finger must have been the size of a chocolate M&M—and about the same color. A chocolate diamond?
Frankie seemed to spot someone he recognized and frowned. Then he quickly downed his beer, gave the woman in red a superficial hug, and made his excuses. I watched as he headed into the crowd and disappeared.
As soon as he turned to go, the blonde looked around, no doubt for someone else to flirt with.
I recognized her immediately from her picture in the newspaper.
“Oh my God, that’s Polly!” I whispered to Dillon. “I hope she doesn’t spot me.”
Dillon frowned. “Why not?”
I filled him in on the negative review I’d given to one of her ex-husband’s restaurants.
“I doubt she cares or even remembers,” he said.
“I’m not so sure, and I don’t want to ruin Aunt Abby’s chances for winning if Polly is still holding a grudge against me.” I turned away to make sure she didn’t see me. “What’s she doing now?”
“She just chugged the rest of her drink,” Dillon said. “Now she’s setting the glass down on a table . . . and she just snatched another drink off a waiter’s tray. Looks like she’s not one to let her mouth go dry for very long.”
“You said she’s supposed to be quite the party girl,” I said, not surprised at Dillon’s observation. “Is she talking to anyone else yet?”
Dillon shook his head, then said, “Wait. . . . She’s heading for another guy. . . . I think it’s Harrison Tofflemire, the Chocolate Falls guru. What did he enter in the contest?”
I was about to scan the brochure when a woman came up to me holding two empty wineglasses. She wore a long chocolate-brown sheath, slit up the side and embellished with sequins and rhinestones. Her black shoulder-length hair d her face, and she’d emphasized her dark eyes with a heavy layer of eyeliner, making her look even more exotic. Her long nails were painted chocolate brown, and one sported a diamond stud that matched the tiny diamond in her pierced nose. A long silk scarf, light beige and dotted with silk-screened chocolate chips, was draped over her neck.
I was about to admire her themed scarf when she said, “Why are you two just standing there? You’re supposed to be circulating the drinks and hors d’oeuvres. I didn’t hire you to help yourselves and stare at the guests.”
My mouth dropped open. Apparently she believed Dillon was one of the waiters, but did she actually think I was part of the serving staff too?
“I’m sorry, but I’m—,” I started to explain, but Dillon cut me off.
“Yes, we’re sorry. We’ll get right to it.” He bowed his head subserviently.
I blinked at Dillon’s response but kept my mouth shut and watched as he took the two glasses from the woman’s hands. She gave us the once-over, then said, “See that you do, or you won’t be working for me again.” With that she turned on her dark brown high heels and returned to the crowd.
“What a beeotch!” I said. “Who does she think she is?”
Dillon hushed me. “That’s Reina Patel, the event coordinator. She’s the one who’s running this show, and she can get us kicked out of here if she feels like it. Mom says she’s a bit of a diva. She’s even having the event videotaped to submit to one of those Food Network shows—a kind of behind-the-scenes thing. Starring her, of course. Mom said this is her first year hosting the Chocolate Festival, so she’s probably worried about every little thing.”
So that was the woman who had called Aunt Abby and told her about George Brown’s death. “Why didn’t you tell her I’m part of the competition? Why did you let her think I was staff?”
Dillon grinned. “It’s more fun this way. When she realizes we’re both on Mom’s team, she’ll be all flustered and embarrassed. And besides, it might work to our advantage if we act like waiters. No one will notice us, so maybe we’ll hear things. . . .”
Dillon was always scheming.
Moments later the videographer appeared from out of nowhere. His digital video camera was focused on Reina, obscuring his face, but from his clothes he looked like a typical college student in jeans and a T-shirt. He followed Reina from a distance of a few feet as she began greeting the various guests.
I returned to the program to see what Harrison Tofflemire was entering in the contest. “It says here he’s created something called Chocolate Kahlua Falls. Sounds interesting.”
I studied the man who was currently talking to Polly. He was hefty—dare I say fat—as if he’d been enjoying many of his own Chocolate Falls over the years. Balding, with glasses, a rosy gin-blossom nose, and pudgy fingers wrapped around the wineglass stem, he looked like a man who’d had success early and then gone to pot. But his less than appealing appearance didn’t seem to stop Polly from fawning all over him. She alternately straightened his bow tie, patted his Buddha tummy, and giggled at his jokes. Jeez. Next to him stood two bored-looking young women in identical skimpy tight dresses more appropriate for clubbing than a reception.
Dillon nudged me, causing me to nearly spill my drink. “Careful!” I said.
“Check it out,” he said, ignoring my complaint. “It’s that French chick.”
“Monet?” I scanned the area, trying to pick out someone who looked French, then realized that was impossible. “Where is she?”
“Over there.” He pointed her out. “She’s headed straight for Polly and Harrison, and she doesn’t look happy.”
I watched as the frowning, thin woman joined the twosome. Harrison’s attention suddenly shifted to the attractive newcomer, who had obviously pleased Harrison, while Polly seemed taken aback by the intrusion. While Polly was still trim and in good shape for a woman her age—I guessed fortysomething—she had nothing on the younger, prettier French pastry chef. Monet sported white blond hair cut in a smooth bob, her makeup expertly done. She wore a skintight silver sheath, the top cut low enough to reveal ample pale breasts and bottom cut high enough to show off long, slim legs. She towered over Polly and Harrison in her silver stiletto Manolos. Harrison looked downright hypnotized by her.
“Wow.”
I glanced at Dillon. Like Harrison, he was staring trancelike at Monet. “Close your mouth, Hacker-Boy,” I said.
Men.
I wished I could hear what Monet was saying to the other two guests, but the noise of the crowd prevented any eavesdropping. She kept glancing around the room while she talked, and I wondered who she might be looking for. I checked the program to see what the Frenchwoman was offering for the contest. “Hmm. It looks like the girl from I Scream Cupcakes is entering something called Chocolate Scream Cakes, whatever that is. She probably doesn’t want to give away too much before tonight’s preview tasting.”
Dillon still hadn’t broken his gaze. I waved a hand in front of his frozen face. “Earth to Dillon.”
“Uh, what?”
I sighed and checked the brochure. “Never mind. Any sign of Griffin Makeba, the Pie Guy, or Aunt Abby’s friend Wendy Spellman?”
; Dillon tore his eyes from the dessert called Monet, searched the room, then pointed to a young African American guy sitting alone at a table, seemingly reading the brochure. “That’s him.”
Griffin appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He was sipping what looked like a glass of water while glancing up occasionally to observe the other mingling guests. Much like the videographer, he had not dressed up. Instead he wore faded black jeans and a T-shirt with a graphic of a pie in the middle. Underneath were the words “Fill Your Piehole.” He, too, was frowning.
I checked the program. “Griffin’s entry is called Chocolate Cherry Tarts.”
I glanced back up to see an older woman with short gray hair, wearing a long Victorian-style dress, join him. They shook hands, said a few words, then sat sipping their drinks in silence and watching the crowd.
“Oh boy. That’s Wendy Spellman, my mom’s friend,” Dillon said, indicating the older woman sitting with Griffin. “I hope she doesn’t see me. I don’t need another butt massage.”
At that moment, Wendy spotted Dillon, gave him a big smile, and waved him over. Dillon smiled meekly and waved back, muttering to me through clenched teeth, “Great. If I’m not back in five minutes, come and rescue me.”
I giggled and watched Dillon pick up a tray from the bar, set two waiting drinks on it, and head over to join his mom’s friend at the table, still posing as a waiter.
I was about to take a sip of my wine when I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Recognizing the voice, I turned around.
Jake Miller.
Apparently my waiter disguise hadn’t fooled him.
I sucked in my breath when I saw what he was wearing—a smart black suit fitted perfectly to his muscular body, paired with a bright Grateful Dead tie. I’d never seen him so dressed up before. Had he looked like that when he’d worked as an attorney? I had a feeling all he had to do was smile at the women in the jury box and they would have voted his way.
