Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery

by Penny Pike

  “I think you can forget about Frankie’s cheesy entries. I don’t think he has a prayer of winning. I told him that when he entered this contest, but he wouldn’t listen. He never listened to anything I said when I was with him.”

  “You and Frankie were . . . together?” I asked, trying to sound surprised. Dillon had already discovered that the two had been married, but I wanted to know more. Had he been the one she was screaming at over the phone?

  She sighed. “Married, actually. What a mistake that was. Frenchwomen should never marry Italian men. We’re much more composed and less temperamental.”

  She hadn’t sounded so composed a few minutes ago.

  “So you two are divorced?” I asked the leading question.

  Wiping her hands with a dishcloth, she turned around to face me. “Yes, thank goodness. We started our business together, but we disagreed on everything. He thought he was a rock star in his chef’s whites. Only trouble was, he couldn’t keep them on around other women.”

  I nodded, trying to appear sympathetic. “So his infidelity is really what caused the breakup,” I summarized.

  “Yes, but let’s not talk about that.” She waved the damp cloth around airily. “I get angry all over again when I think of it. He actually believed sleeping with one of the judges would help him win the chocolate competition. Now that she’s dead, so are his chances. Serves him right, the pig.”

  Frankie had slept with Polly? Monet had just dropped a bomb and didn’t even seem to know it. I’d heard Polly had gotten around, but apparently so did Frankie. I wondered if Monet could be considered a suspect in Polly’s murder, since her ex-husband had been romantically involved with her? Hidden jealousy?

  “You don’t suppose Frankie might have killed Polly, do you?” I was curious how she’d react to such a pointed question.

  “You mean, if Wendy Spellman didn’t really do it?” she asked, her pencil-drawn eyebrows raised.

  I shrugged.

  “You think Wendy’s innocent?” It apparently hadn’t occurred to her that Wendy might not have killed Polly.

  “My aunt thinks so. She knows Wendy well and is sure she didn’t do it.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” Monet frowned and crossed her arms in front of her. “You think someone else killed Polly, like Frankie?”

  I said nothing.

  “You don’t mean me?” she said, her voice rising. Where was that composed Frenchwoman I’d been talking to a moment ago?

  I shook my head. “No, of course not—”

  “How could you think I killed Polly? Because she was sleeping with my ex-husband? You’re out of your mind! He’s a pig. I loathe him. If anyone had to die, I wish it had been him.”

  “I was just—”

  She cut me off. “Why don’t you go ask him if he killed Polly? He’s the one you should be talking to!”

  “I did. He said—”

  “He said what? That I killed his only chance at winning the contest? That I dumped her in a vat of chocolate because I was jealous? That I’m happy she’s dead because . . . because . . .”

  The door to Monet’s truck burst open. Frankie Nudo bolted inside, his face flushed, his dark eyes wild.

  “Go on. Tell her, Monet! We can hear you all over the festival!” Frankie shouted, spittle collecting at the edges of his mouth. “Tell her why you’re glad Polly is dead.”

  Monet grabbed the closest thing at hand—a heavy metal ice cream scoop—and threw it at Frankie. He ducked just in time to avoid being hit in the head.

  “Get out of here!” she screamed, searching for another object to throw at her ex-husband.

  “Not until you tell her the truth and stop spreading lies!” Frankie yelled back.

  Monet pulled out a large knife from a drawer and pointed it at Frankie. I backed up, caught in the middle, and tried to flatten myself against the freezer.

  “You can’t hurt me!” Frankie hollered. He stepped forward, grabbed Monet’s wrist, and twisted her arm, causing her hand to open. The knife went flying and landed an inch away from my foot. I stepped on it to keep the two of them from trying to get it.

  Monet tried to slap Frankie, but he held her wrist tight.

  “Polly was blackmailing you too—wasn’t she, Monet?” Frankie snarled. “Just like she was me. She knew you never attended Le Cordon Bleu, like you’ve been claiming all these years. You never attended any cooking school. And you lied again about your credentials when you signed up for the contest. But she found out, didn’t she? Did you kill her because of that, Monet?”

  Before Monet could say anything, I felt the truck bounce again. I turned to see Jake enter, followed by a security guard. The tiny truck was getting crowded. We were nearly elbow to elbow.

  “What’s going on here?” Jake asked. He glanced down at the knife blade under my foot. His eyes widened. “Are you okay, Darcy?”

  I nodded and let out a breath.

  Frankie released his grip on Monet’s wrist and stepped back, his fisted hands at his sides.

  “Did he hurt you, ma’am?” the security guard asked. Thin, with glasses, a sparse mustache, and an oversized uniform, he looked dazed, as if domestic violence during a chocolate festival was out of his league. His name tag read CLIFFORD PRICE.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I can take care of myself.” She rubbed her wrist where Frankie had gripped her tightly.

  “Hurt her?” Frankie argued. “She threw that metal scoop at me! And she tried to stab me with that knife!”

  “Is this true, ma’am?” Clifford the security guard asked while Jake took in the scene.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Monet said. “I couldn’t possible hurt him with a little ice cream scoop. As for the knife, I simply dropped it.”

  Clifford combed his thin mustache with his fingertips. “Do you want to press charges?”

  “For what?” Frankie asked. “She tried to kill me!”

  “Assault? Battery? Trespassing?” the security guard offered.

  “She invited me in,” Frankie said. He glanced at Monet.

  She gave a one-shouldered shrug.

  “How about disturbing the peace?” Clifford offered weakly.

  “No. Just get him out of here,” Monet said. She waved him away.

  The guard tried to take Frankie’s arm, but Frankie jerked away. I felt for Clifford—he was half Frankie’s size and carried no visible weapons, unless he planned to hit him with his cell phone.

  “Don’t worry. I’m leaving,” Frankie growled at Monet. He spun around and got in my face. “But watch out for this nosy lady.” I knew he was still speaking to Monet, even though he had his finger inches from my nose.

  “Why?” Monet asked. “Because she might find out the truth about you? Of course, it’s hardly a secret that you’ve slept your way into the business. Is that what Polly had on you, Frankie? She found out you were cheating on her like you did on me? Did she catch you with one of Harrison’s daughters and threaten to tell him?”

  Frankie was fooling around with Harrison’s daughters? Whoa.

  “That’s none of your business, Monet. I’m just saying, watch out for this chick. She’s desperate to save her aunt’s friend. She tried to pin it on me, and I’ll bet she’ll try to do the same to you and anyone else she feels like.” Frankie glared at me. “Isn’t that right, Scooby-Doo?”

  One more second and I swear I would have scratched his eyes out, but he turned and left before I could get out my claws. Scooby-Doo? Excuse me?

  “Come on, Darcy,” Jake said, noticing my rising ire. “Let’s go see your aunt. I’m sure she’s wondering where you’ve been.”

  Monet reached a hand forward as if to stop us. “Wait.”

  I turned back. “Yes?”

  “All that stuff Frankie said about me. You don’t believe him, do you?”

>   “It’s none of my business whether you went to cooking school or not,” I said.

  “No, not that. I mean about Polly knowing and trying to blackmail me. . . .” She trailed off.

  I said nothing. Monet had a motive to murder Polly—to keep her background safe and protect her reputation while winning a chunk of money and appearing on TV.

  But then, Simon, Isabel, and Frankie all had motives too.

  * * *

  Jake and I headed across the way to Aunt Abby’s bus, while Clifford the security guard reported in on his walkie-talkie before driving off in his little golf cart. Although there was still a light on inside Aunt Abby’s bus, when I tried the door, it was locked. I knocked; no answer.

  I looked at my watch. It was past eight. Aside from Monet and Frankie’s trucks, most of the lights were out in the other trucks and the festival area looked like a ghost town. “I guess she and Dillon have gone home for the night. They’re probably working on more whoopie pies. I should join them. I’ve had enough ‘interviewing’ for the night.”

  “We can do some more tomorrow,” Jake said. “You learned a lot already.”

  “Yeah, that’s the problem,” I said. “It seems like everyone I talk to had a reason to kill Polly. Apparently she was blackmailing everyone but you, me, and Aunt Abby.”

  “Don’t forget Wendy,” Jake said.

  I shook my head. “I haven’t. She’s the reason we’re doing all of this.”

  “Want to come over for a cream puff?” Jake asked.

  I was torn. I wanted to spend some alone time with Jake, but I was so tired from the day, all I wanted to do now was go home, see if Aunt Abby needed help, then curl up in bed and start over in the morning.

  “I’d love to,” I said, “but I should check on Aunt Abby, see how she’s doing with those whoopie pies.”

  “Okay. I’ll walk you to your car. It’s gotten pretty dark around here.”

  He was right. It was downright gloomy, even a little creepy, without the customers, vendors, music, and noise. The area was lit by only a few streetlights and the glow from some nearby shops.

  Jake took my hand as we headed for my car. It felt both comforting and exciting to walk with him, hand in hand. As we passed between Aunt Abby’s bus and Wendy’s truck, Jake pulled out his cell phone and clicked the flashlight app to light the way. Walking in the dim light, I didn’t notice anything unusual until he shined the flashlight on my VW.

  “Oh my God . . . ,” I whispered as I stared at it in disbelief.

  Someone had poured some kind of dark, slimy ooze on my car. Starting on the ragtop, goo had spilled down over the sides, over the windows, and onto the front and back fenders. It was a thick, drippy mess.

  As I got closer, the smell of chocolate filled my nose. I reached out and touched the sticky slime.

  Liquefied chocolate.

  Something caught my eye. A message, scrawled on the chocolate-covered window:

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  Chapter 18

  I stood there, speechless and dumbfounded, staring at my chocolate-covered car in the semidarkness.

  “Whoa,” Jake said. “What the . . . ?”

  I felt anger more than anything else. Someone was obviously trying to scare me off, but I was pissed at seeing my cute VW Bug turned into an ugly mess. Tears suddenly sprang to my eyes. “My car . . . It’s ruined. . . .”

  Jake wrapped an arm around me. “No, it isn’t. It’ll wash off.”

  “Chocolate’s acidic!” I whined.

  “But it’s balanced with alkaline. It shouldn’t harm the paint job. I’m more worried about the note scrawled on your window. Shelton needs to know about this.”

  Jake got out his cell phone and took several flash pictures of the car and a number of close-ups of the message written on the front window.

  “Do you think they left any fingerprints?” I asked.

  Jake peered closely at the window with his flashlight app. “None that I can see left in the chocolate. The techs may find something, but I’m guessing whoever did this probably used gloves.”

  Jake phoned Detective Shelton and left a message on his cell phone, telling him about my car. Then he e-mailed the photos to him. Jake’s phone rang the moment he’d finished sending the last picture.

  “It’s Shelton,” he said to me, checking his cell phone screen. “Detective,” he said into the phone.

  I scanned the area while Jake explained to the detective what we’d found. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the—what? Prankster? Stalker? Killer?—but the place was deserted. Only a handful of cars remained in the lot. I spotted a light on at Reina’s trailer office a few yards away and figured she was working on tomorrow’s festival and contest. I wondered if she might have seen or heard anything.

  Jake hung up. “He’s coming over with a couple of crime-scene techs. He said there’s probably nothing they can do if there are no fingerprints, but he’s betting this is related to Polly’s murder and doesn’t want to take any chances. We’ll have to sit tight until he gets here.”

  I nodded toward Reina’s office. “Looks like she’s still around. Let’s ask her if she noticed anything suspicious.”

  Jake shrugged. “Worth a try.”

  We walked the short distance to the trailer and knocked on the door.

  I heard noises inside—a drawer slamming shut, footsteps. After a few seconds, a voice called out, “Who is it?”

  “Jake Miller and Darcy Burnett,” Jake answered.

  The door opened a crack, revealing a chain and Reina’s right eye. She closed the door again, unlocked the safety chain, and opened the door.

  “It’s awfully late,” Reina began, skipping a cordial greeting as she looked at her watch. “Past ten. What are you doing here?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Reina,” Jake said. “Have you been here all evening?”

  “Yes. Why?” Her eyes widened, and she suddenly looked alarmed. “Is something wrong?”

  “There’s been an incident,” Jake said carefully. “We wondered if you saw anything suspicious in the parking lot during the last couple of hours.”

  She shook her head, leaned out, and looked in the direction of the lot. “What happened?”

  “Someone vandalized Darcy’s car.” Jake pointed toward my car. I followed his gaze and realized Reina couldn’t have seen my car well from her vantage point, even in broad daylight. It was some distance away and somewhat obscured behind a chain-link fence.

  “Vandalized?” Reina rushed down the steps. Jake and I led her to my car. When she got a glimpse of it, she gasped. “Oh my God! What is that stuff?”

  “Chocolate,” I said.

  “You’re kidding!” She shook her head. “Who could have done such a thing? Has anything else been vandalized? Any of the food trucks or vendors’ tents?” She glanced around.

  “I don’t think so,” Jake said. “We didn’t see anything else. So far, just Darcy’s car.”

  Reina frowned and stepped closer to the car window. “Something’s written here. . . .” She read the words aloud: “‘I know what you’re doing.’” She looked at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea.” Although I had a hunch it had to do with the questions I’d been asking about Polly’s murder.

  “This is outrageous! Where are the security guards? Where’s Clifford? How could he let this happen?” She pulled out her cell phone and punched in a number. Seconds later she snapped, “Clifford! This is Reina! Where the hell are you? You’re supposed to be guarding the Chocolate Festival area!”

  I couldn’t hear his response.

  “Well, get over here! Now! A car has been vandalized in the staff parking lot, behind the Big Yellow School Bus!” She hung up. “Did you call the police?” she asked Jake.

  “They’re on t
heir way,” he replied. “So you didn’t see anything?”

  “No, sorry. But heads are going to roll over this. We simply can’t have any more trouble or the festival will be ruined for sure.”

  It was all about the Chocolate Festival for Reina Patel. Was it the money? The prestige? Either way, I had a feeling Reina couldn’t give a rat’s ass about my car.

  “Do you have any enemies?” she asked. “Someone who thinks you’re sticking your nose in the wrong place? I’ll bet it has something to do with Polly Montgomery’s death. What have you been doing?”

  “Just asking a few questions,” I replied.

  Reina shook her head. “I told you two not to bother people, didn’t I? And now look what’s happened.”

  I shot a glance at Jake. He shook his head, as if to say, “Blow it off.”

  Clifford the security guard arrived in his little golf cart, just as headlights appeared from down the street. Moments later an unmarked police car pulled into the lot, followed by a white van that read SFPD CRIME UNIT.

  Detective Shelton got out of the car, two techs jumped out of the van, and all three headed over to us.

  “Wow,” Detective Shelton said. “Somebody likes chocolate.”

  “Not funny,” I said. “The paint on my car’s probably ruined.”

  Jake pointed to the message on one of the windows. “Check this out.”

  The detective studied the writing, then signaled for his techs to begin work. They took pictures, examined the outside of the car for evidence, looked around for footprints and other signs of the vandal, and did the usual CSI stuff.

  Meanwhile, Detective Shelton asked me a bunch of questions like: When did I last see the car before it was vandalized? Who did I think was responsible? Does anyone have a reason to threaten me? Routine. He briefly asked Reina and Clifford if they’d seen anything, but since they said they hadn’t, he was done questioning them in a matter of minutes.