Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) (18 page)

I ask the one thing on the forefront of my mind as Hugo Biven, Olivia's proud and hefty father, stares at me. I add it all up in my head. Sam's exes arriving early for the ceremony. The fight in the garden between Sam and Olivia. Sam's lifeless body near the rocky shore.

"Are you going to kill me?" I ask.
Why dance around the truth?

"You are a cheeky one, aren't you?" Hugo chuckles—his rounded middle slightly bouncing. "But that's a fair question." He tilts his head and twists his lips to one side as if deciding what to order off the breakfast menu. "I haven't decided yet."

"She knows nothing," Cira blurts out. "I didn't tell her a thing."

"I believe you," he answers. "Unfortunately, Poppy has been compromised by other means. Your little friend from the pub."

"Billie?" I guess.

"You've seen the headlines lately I take it?" He waits for me to nod. "Billie…" He makes a sour face when he says her name. "…recently had an altercation with my daughter at a nightclub in London. She claimed to know the truth behind Lord Dovington's death, along with
loads of others
as she put it."

"Me?" I point to myself, looking from Cira to Hugo. "She never told me anything."

"You are the
croissant girl
, are you not?" he asks. I can't deny it. "She claims to have told you everything."

"So that's why you kidnapped me?" I roll my eyes in frustration. Hugo just cost me ugly bruises and milk chocolate
mendiants
. All because some woman is trying to make a quick buck from the tabloids. "You think I know who the killer is?"

"Don't you?" Hugo asks.
I bet I can guess
.

"No," I shout. "For the millionth time, no!"

Cira glances down at the floor. I know there's more to it than her confession. Why else would Hugo go through such great lengths to follow me, have my diamond pendant stolen, and then basically steal me too?

Why does any semi-normal person go berserk like that?

Love. Or lack of it.

My love for Grandma Liz is what carried me through my first semester at Calle Pastry Academy. Cira's love for Sam made her agree to the most sinister things. What's Hugo motive?

Olivia.

Memories link in my mind, and my eyes widen with a new connection.

It was Olivia.

In between her fight with Sam and the moment I met her in her changing room, something awful happened. A mistake. One that Cira blames herself for, and now she's awaiting her punishment. I think about the storage closet and Cira's excessive use of the word
they
.

They approached me.

Cira said that Sam was already with Olivia when she left her new life behind to join him at Dovington Manor. Olivia must have known all along that her fiancé was a serial womanizer. So she hatched a plan to end his infidelity for good. With the help of her father, the Biven family did what they had to do to ensure Lord Dovington's demise and their innocence. The convinced Cira to do the deed.

But what went wrong?

Maybe it was Billie showing up with two other exes with a plan of her own?

Maybe dying her hair wasn't enough for Cira not to be recognized by the groom?

Maybe that mysterious chocolate macaroon was meant for someone specific?

And maybe it was all three?

"But," Hugo breaks my concentration, "you are starting to figure it out." He studies my expression. I can't hide my mix of emotions. My heart is pounding. I've figured out on my own what the Detectives couldn't, but my side is also pulsing in agony.

"She's in pain." Cira makes the excuse for me. "Please, just let her go."

Hugo sighs, clenching his jaw.

"Ms. Peters," he addresses me. "Sometimes as a parent, you do the best you can to shelter your child from the world but sooner or later it comes knocking. I do what I have to for my daughter."

"Even murder?"

Hugo nods.

"This is why I cannot let you go," he replies. "I have made up my mind. I must cover
all
tracks."

"No!" Cira jumps—her entire face cherry red. "No, you can't do this!"

Hugo stands up to leave. Before he can open the door, the bald-headed man returns. He nods at his boss, clutching something shiny in his hand. Hugo leaves the room without a second glance as his hired hit man prepares to do what has to be done in order to cover up what really happened.

He's going to kill us.

Cira runs for the door. She flails her arms, trying to aim for the man's face, but it doesn't work. Hugo is gone, and it's just the three of us in an empty, ill-lit dressing room behind an ancient Parisian theater. There have been times in my life when I've lived for the stage.

I never thought I would die on it.

I don't want a cold dressing room and a hysterical Spaniard to be my last memory.

The bald-headed man pushes Cira away. One rough swing of his arm and she's half way across the room on her back. The man doesn't smirk or bat an eye when he flashes a small hand gun. He aims it at Cira first, and the sight of it makes her freeze like a human glacier.

Do something! Quick!

I can't match this man's strength. He will win every time. I have no weapon of my own to do any damage, so that's out. I have to use something else.

"Wait!" I yell. I have his attention for the next five seconds. "You're going to shoot us and leave us here? Won't that seem even more suspicious?"

The man pauses to process my comment.

"You could at least make it look like a mugging," I blurt out.

"Poppy!" Cira responds. "What are you doing?"

I'm hoping that this guy's brain isn't as big as his biceps.

"No talking," he commands us.

"There are clues all over," I go on. I do my best to steady my voice, but my chest is pounding violently. I can't stop it. "Starting with the cuff link I knicked off you earlier."

He lowers his gun, looking confused. He won't be able to resist checking his sleeves, and that'll be my window. The only one I have. His gargantuan body is blocking our only way out, but I only need a second to make a break for it. My eyes zero in on the nearest wooden chair. The element of surprise is all I have. I have to use every last bit of it, or I'll be dead in a minute.

My palms sweat, and my limbs feel tingly. I'm ready to sprint for my life, and I hope Cira follows me. The bald-headed man glances at his wrists, lowering his gun halfway to the floor. As soon as his eyes are fixated elsewhere, I shoot my body forward like a spring, gripping the edge of a chair as tight as I can. I think of the frying pan in Marta's apartment.

Aim for the head! The head, Poppy!

The chair crashes against his neck with a giant bang, and it's enough to make him stumble to his knees. A surge of adrenaline bolts through my veins. All I can see is the door. I run for it, feeling like it's miles away.

I twist the knob.

It opens.

Footsteps tap the floor behind me as I sprint into the hallway, suddenly stopping as I look both ways. I kick off my nude heels, ready to take my chances with bare feet. Either end of the corridor looks the same. Cira bumps into me and grabs my hand.

"This way," she pants, out of breath. "Hurry!"

The two of us run as fast as our legs will allow. It's barely fast enough. It sounds like the ground is splitting in two behind us. We are being chased. I follow Cira out of the hallway and onto the stage of a dark theater—one large enough to house all of the students of Calle Pastry Academy and then some. Hundreds of tiny lights make the vaulted ceiling sparkle, and a heavenly mural surrounds the largest chandelier I've ever seen. Golden columns run up the walls and outline the viewing booths on both sides of the theater.

Cira crawls around the orchestra pit and plants her feet in front of the very first row of seats. I catch up to her, and we run as quickly as we can—reaching a short barrier separating the next section of seats from the front. I hop over it, and my entire body jumps as a loud shot pierces the silence.

We're not alone anymore.

Cira and I duck as low as we can. We quietly crawl through rows of seats, hiding ourselves from view. I try to control my breathing. It's so loud I can hear myself huffing and puffing. Keeping my mouth shut only makes it worse. Cira stops and covers her mouth. I mimic her and watch the bald-headed man gaze into the theater from center stage. His gun is pointed up at the ceiling.

"I know you're out there," he shouts. "I'll find you."

He scans the room once again, but Cira and I remain dead still.

The man turns and disappears behind stage. I slowly creep closer to the exit, but I come to a halt when the lights flip on. I can clearly see the theater around me, and I'm instantly awestruck. Much like Le Croissant, I feel like I've just stepped back through time. The colorful, hand-painted ceiling. The laced and layered stage curtains that look like they weigh thousands of pounds. It takes me a few glances to realize that they're not curtains at all but one giant,
brilliant
painting. The detailed crown molding and beautifully carved railings above us. It's a breathtaking place to die.

Our hunter quickly returns. He starts with the first section, kicking chairs as he combs through seats looking for our hiding spot. I can smell the scent of his aftershave circling through the air. A mixture of sweat and clove. I wonder if he uses it to shine his head.

"
Ay dios mio
," Cira mumbles.

As the bald-headed man gets closer and closer to hopping the wooden railing separating the rest of the theater from the seats up front, I feel frozen. My eyes are wider than coconut macaroons, and every thought in my head floats to the vaulted ceiling.

What do I do?

I'm minutes away from facing the ultimate fate. Minutes away from staring death in the face, yet my mind is moving at glacial speeds. The thought of crawling up a row and being seen paralyzes me, but it's my only choice.

Cira covers her head, molding her body into a round ball. I nudge her, waiting for the bald-headed man to climb over the section break. He lifts his leg, looking down at where he's stepping. I speedily crawl to the section of seats across the theater, moving up a couple of rows. When I stop, Cira bumps into my back.

It worked.

The bald-headed man repeats the same process. He kicks random chairs as he skims each row section by section. He smacks the back of each row a little harder when he fails to locate his targets. I watch him carefully from across the theater. He moves to another row, walking in our opposite direction with his back turned.

I crawl up a row.

The bald-headed man grunts loudly as he paces down the next aisle. His jaw is clenched, and beads of sweat are forming on his forehead. His cheeks are crimson, and he's glaring down at the floor like he wants to shoot it for being uncooperative. He kicks another chair. This time it makes a loud thud that echoes through the auditorium and makes my heart jump. He turns his back to walk through the next cluster of seats.

I move up a row.

This time I study the man's movements like a lioness. Every time I move, it gets easier. I'm starting to adjust to my rapid heart rate and heavy breathing like it's normal. Cira continues to follow me without question—the two of us crawling at super speeds without a peep of noise. We might actually make it out of the theater in one piece.

I think one step at a time.

Move up a row.

Move up a row.

Now another.

At this rate, the bald-headed man won't catch up to us in time. We'll be out on the streets of Paris before he has the chance to aim his pistol. My confidence rises with every step I take. I look over my shoulder at Cira crouched down behind me and smile. She smiles back. The two of us move up another row. Our very last row.

Our next step is the exit.

I scan the back of the theater, formulating a back-up plan if this one goes sour. I glance back down at the stage. If the doors are locked, we'll have to start all over again and take our chances behind the curtain.

"Ready?" I whisper. Cira gulps, biting the corner of her lip as she nervously nods.

The bald-headed man kicks another seat, yelling in frustration. He points his handgun at the ceiling and bares his teeth as he fires a shot into the air. The sound pierces through my skull, and Cira and I crouch lower.

"Are you mad?" a voice booms from the exit. "Do you have any idea how much that ceiling is worth?"

"It's only paint," the bald-headed man huffs.

"You, Sir, are a complete and total arse." My eyes dart from the exit to Cira. The voice sounds familiar. I raise my eyebrows, seeing sandy blonde hair and a well-mannered grin.

"Detective Casey," I say to Cira. A wave of warmth courses through me. My nightmare is over. I jump to my feet, feeling a hard tug on my wrist.