Criminal Confections (12 page)

“Right? Who doesn't like having a sexy man's hands all over them?” Isabel grinned. “It's important to have correct form.”

“That's true.” I glanced over at napping Poopsie, feeling my heart expand at the sight of that little dog. If I ditched my sole suitcase and carried only my duffel, I could bring a small pet carrier on my travels. “If
my
millionaire husband had an affair,” I cracked, setting aside that idea for now, “I'd want a lot more than a dog in compensation, though. Even a cute one.”

This time, Isabel looked surprised. Then she grinned.

“I just might get more,” Isabel confided. “From Hank.”

The resort's personal trainer, I surmised.
Hubba-hubba.

“Now that I don't have any more
boring
‘getting to know you' games to do, that is,” Isabel specified, rolling her eyes. “Ugh. That scavenger hunt yesterday was a real yawn!”

“I don't know,” I joked. “You seemed to liven it up okay.”

She laughed. “I'm trying to persuade Bernie that there's life outside Lemaître. I've almost cracked him.”

I inhaled chocolate. “I thought Bernard was retired.”

“He is,” Isabel confirmed, “but the business still has first place in his heart. Just look at the way Bernie came running when Christian invited him to make an appearance at the retreat!” She accepted a fresh choco-mosa from Britney. “Bernie just can't quit. He
has
to have a hand in Lemaître Chocolates.”

“That would make traveling tough,” I agreed.

“Try impossible! I tried to persuade him to come with me on holiday to our palazzo on the Amalfi Coast last month, and he turned me down flat. I'm almost at the end of my rope.”

I could understand that. “I
love
Italy,” I told her.

That launched us, effortlessly, into a conversation about traveling. We bonded instantly over our shared love of being on the move. Neither of us understood homebodies; both of us were multilingual—Isabel
much
more so than me, of course. I've picked up a few bits and pieces over a nomadic lifetime. She'd attended the best schools in France, Switzerland, and “memorably” Greece, then spent almost a decade modeling in international locales.

If I wanted to continue nosing into part B of my resolution, I realized, I'd never have a better time than this.

“I feel bad talking about all these fun things, though, after what happened to Adrienne,” I confessed truthfully. I looked away. “Do you really think she overdosed on something?”

“Maybe that green slop of hers was deadly,” Isabel joked.

She seemed completely unbothered by the subject of her husband's (rumored) mistress. A little crass, too, to be honest. But that was almost refreshing. I looked at her more closely. I have to admit, I wanted Isabel to be innocent. I liked her.

“Maybe someone
made sure
her green juice was deadly.”

“Yes!” She blinked at me, seemingly enthralled by the idea. “My money's on Rex Rader.” Emphatically, Isabel nodded. “With Adrienne out of the way, he'd have a straight shot at Bernie.”

That
was unexpected. But if Rex wanted Bernard, didn't that mean he'd have to get
Isabel
out of the way? I was baffled.

That had been happening to me a lot lately. It wasn't fun.

“But Bernard's not gay,” I protested. “Is he?”

Neither was Rex, as far as I knew. He certainly gave a convincing impression of being relentlessly into women only.

Isabel laughed. “Not
that
way!” Her amused gaze met mine. “I mean, now Bernie and Rex can rekindle their relationship. Not that I
want
them to. Not now, when I'm just making progress. If the two of them hook up again, I'll never get Bernie to retire!”

I paused. Maybe we were having a language-barrier issue. “I'm afraid that all sounds like one big euphemism to me.”

It sounded, more accurately, as if Bernie and Rex were going to go hot and heavy the first second they had a chance.

“Oh, I forgot.” Isabel sipped her choco-mosa. “You're new around here. You don't know all the history.” She stretched her leg out of the hot-cocoa mud bath, then rotated her slender foot. I'd swear she admired it, too. For a good few minutes.

“The history?” I prodded. Well, wouldn't you?

“Bernie used to mentor Rex, back in the day,” Isabel confided. “The two of them were as thick as thieves. Then Rex decided to strike out on his own, Christian came along and booted Bernie out, and everything fell apart.” She pouted. “I'm sure Bernie met with Rex on the sly last night. I think he wants to bring him into Lemaître to replace Adrienne. They
will
need a new head chocolatier immediately, and Rex
does
know all the ins and outs of Lemaître. But I want Bernie to
retire
! If he doesn't, I swear I'm going to have to do something
drastic
!”

Her overly dramatic tone rang alarm bells in my head. But frankly, my head was so full of new information just then that the warning barely registered. Bernard's former mentorship of Rex meant, I realized, that Rex would have had a good reason to get Adrienne out of the picture. If she was gone, he must have known he'd have a chance to return to Lemaître. With Melt on the skids, he might have wanted to, too. There was just one hiccup....

“But Christian runs Lemaître now,” I said.

“Bernie thinks he can win over his nephew by fixing this new ‘problem' for him.” Isabel rolled her eyes. “Even dead, Adrienne is messing things up for me! I can't catch a break.”

I guessed that meant Adrienne
had
been involved with Bernard. Isabel's lament was as good as an admission.

“Yes,” I said. “Her death must be very difficult for you.”

I was being sarcastic. But Isabel didn't get it.

“It is!” she wailed. “I just want my Bernie back!”

But I'd already moved on. Because if Bernard saw Adrienne's death as a way to get on Christian's good side, that meant that I had to add
another
player to my roster of potential suspects: Bernard Lemaître. He was strong, motivated . . . and maybe ruthless?

Nah.
I just couldn't believe it. It seemed more likely that Isabel
wasn't
as nonchalant as she seemed to be when it came to her philandering husband and his mistress. Could Isabel's blithe attitude be a front, after all? I glanced at her to decide.

She waved back, obviously blotto. She seemed
much
too drunk to scheme. On the other hand, I was apparently not the world's most perceptive observer. I'd actually bought into her and Bernard's lovey-dovey routine yesterday—hook, line, and sinker.

“So, you think Bernard and Rex were meeting last night?” I asked, careful to keep my tone light. Hoping to distract Isabel into letting down her guard, I made a move toward the tub's edge. “Where were you during all this? You weren't invited?”

Feeling stealthy, I tried to boost myself onto the edge of the tub. Coolly. The way a “good guy” cop would have done while interrogating a suspect. But the hot-cocoa mud was too slippery for the casual maneuver I had in mind. I slipped instead.

Helpfully, Isabel gave me a boost from behind. But she pushed too hard. One minute, I was almost perched on the tub's edge. The next, I was flopping face-first onto the floor. Hard.

Ouch!
Feeling my elbow and knee crack on the tiles, I grunted with pain. It radiated outward. I closed my eyes.

“Hayden!” Isabel yelped, sounding fuzzily contrite. “Are you okay? I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to push you so hard.”

“That's okay.” Gingerly, I got to my feet. The slick tiled floor was splattered with hot-cocoa mud—remnants of Isabel's exuberant European gestures earlier. If I wasn't careful, I'd take a header straight back into the tub. “I'm fine.”

“I guess my workouts with Hank are working!”

“I guess so.” Her helpful shove
had
felt surprisingly forceful. Ruefully, I studied the tub. “I think I've had enough hot-cocoa mud bath for one day, though. I'm going to clean up.”

I still wanted to check with Britney or someone else at the spa café to find out what Adrienne had eaten and drunk there yesterday. Maybe I'd find something that
didn't
point the finger at someone employed in the chocolate industry. I hoped so.

“Well, we'll have to do this again sometime,” Isabel said.

“I'd like that.” We made arrangements to meet at the spa in a couple of days. Then, dripping hot-cocoa mud bath goop, I limped toward the shower stalls. Those rainfall showerheads and secondary water jets looked pretty good to me right about then.

It wasn't until I was already cleaned up and hobbling my way back across Maison Lemaître's grounds (my banged-up knee
really
hurt) that I realized . . . Isabel had never answered my last question. Where
had
she been last night when Adrienne had died?

With no other logical choice, I reluctantly bumped Isabel Lemaître a few notches higher on my list of potential murderous lunatics. For a lot of reasons, I have to say, Isabel could have done it.

The trouble now was . . . how to prove it?

How to prove any of it?

I was no good at subterfuge. My pratfall out of the hot-cocoa mud bath had demonstrated that. From here on out, I told myself, I'd do better just to be myself, with no pseudo “good cop” interrogation tactics to get in my way. Otherwise, I realized with a chill,
I
might be the next person getting an unwanted ride from Marin County to the morgue across the bay.

Chapter 7

I didn't come up with any answers right away. That's because even as I was limping along the path toward Maison Lemaître's main building, mentally devising an outfit for that evening's cocktail party, I heard someone shout my name.

I turned. Nina Wheeler emerged from a resort side door and headed toward me at a nervous trot, carrying her clipboard.

“I've been looking for you,” she said. “I was worried!”

She looked it. Her face seemed even ghostlier than it had that morning. “You should go home, Nina,” I blurted, unable to keep a note of concern from my voice. “It's been a long day.”

Someone had to worry about
her,
after all. Besides, if Nina never saw her number-crunching CPA husband, how could we bond over figuring out how to deal with our mutual numbers guys?

I tried, but Travis wasn't the easiest guy to get close to. So far, he was the only person who'd ever resisted my charms. He'd revealed only the bare minimum of personal info to me—while having
all
the skinny on me, my plans, and my financial life.

It was driving me crazy. It had been for a while now. Ever since Travis had taken over for his stodgy predecessor.

“I'm fine!” Unconvincingly, Nina waved off my concerns. Her hand shook. She lowered her voice. “I just wanted to warn you to steer clear of Isabel Lemaître for the next day or two.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I swear it did.

“Why?” I asked. My voice
may
have squeaked a little.

I'm strong, but I'm not Wonder Woman. Given Adrienne's death, it seemed prudent not to tempt fate too hard.

“Isabel saw you and Bernard talking this morning.” Nina leaned nearer, clutching her clipboard to her chest. Her anxious gaze probed mine in the waning daylight. “She confronted him when he came back to the patio for the brunch buffet.”

“Confronted him?”

“Flipped out is more like it,” Nina told me. “She'd already had a Bloody Mary or two by that point.” I knew that much was true; I'd witnessed it myself. “And, well, you might have noticed that Isabel is
really
possessive about Bernard.”

Confused, I angled my head. My own experience with Isabel contradicted that. Yet Nina was the second person to say so.

Who was I supposed to believe? I liked Isabel. But I liked Nina and Bernard, too. I couldn't make up my mind about anyone.

“I'd be wary if I were you,” Nina went on somberly, making my mistrust seem reasonable. “
Especially
if Isabel thinks you're after Bernard. If you two run into each other before she has time to cool off, I'm afraid she might cause a scene.”

Suddenly, it all made sense. I couldn't believe I'd overlooked the obvious. “You're worried about the retreat.”

“Of course I am! Handling events like this is one of my specialties.” Nina's gaze softened. “But I'm worried about you, too. Speaking of which—what happened to you? Are you okay?”

Her gaze dropped to my knee. Britney had insisted on helpfully bandaging it for me . . . right after letting me know that Adrienne had had green tea, cacao-crusted salmon, and wakame salad with yuzu vinaigrette at the spa café yesterday.

“I'm fine.” I decided a diversion was in order, before I was forced to admit I'd already run into Isabel Lemaître—and had a banged-up, bruised elbow to show for it, too. I'd really hit the tiled floor hard. “Are you going to the cocktail party?”

“Yes.” Nina perked up. “Will Danny be there?”

“I don't know.” It was the truth. It was also convenient. I didn't want to aid and abet my pal's potential philandering with a married woman—no matter how eager that woman was to join him. “I'm headed upstairs soon. I'll probably see him shortly.”

“I saw him running on the ridge earlier.” Nina hugged her clipboard, looking dreamy. She sighed. “He looked really . . . fit.”

Then I
hadn't
imagined it. Danny
had
been exercising. On purpose. Just the way Travis (a marathon runner and swimmer) often did—only to have Danny razz him mercilessly about it.

This was going to be fun. I couldn't wait to see Danny.

“Oh yeah? Who looked fit?” Rex Rader jogged up, obviously having overheard the end of our conversation. “Huh? Who did?”

He panted and kept on jogging in place, looking expectantly from me to Nina and back again. I didn't know how he'd sneaked up on us. He wasn't exactly a diminutive guy. He was six feet tall and almost two hundred pounds, easily. He panted again.

“You did, Mr. Rader,” Nina said smoothly. “Hayden and I were just here admiring your approach as you ran up to us.”

Rex beamed. He puffed out his chest. “Really?”

No, not really, you nincompoop!
I wanted to yell.

But Nina was far more tolerant than I was. “You have very impressive endurance. No wonder you're so successful.”

Rex's formerly careworn expression vanished. He looked as though he might explode with glee. Nina was a miracle worker.

After his showdown with that reporter, I supposed, Rex probably needed a dose of positivity. But couldn't he have been just a
little
less icky in his approach? Just 10 percent or so?

Also, Nina was a much more skilled liar than I'd thought she was. That was surprising—until I realized that she probably felt she owed Rex one for cheering her up earlier. That made sense. Besides, wasn't PR one colossal con game, anyway? An ability to schmooze probably came with the clipboard.

Speaking of which . . . Nina consulted hers. “Well, I'm off to make sure the setup is done for the cocktail party! Bye now.”

She waggled her fingers and headed off. Naturally enough, Rex ogled her as she did. He was really a beast. I didn't notice for a second, though. I was busy wondering. . .
if
Isabel really was the insanely possessive type—and she'd freaked out after learning Bernard had spoken to
me
earlier—could she have tried to get revenge on me just now? Had her “helpful” push been on purpose?

I shivered just thinking about it. So far, all signs pointed to someone possibly wanting Adrienne dead . . . not me. But that wasn't as reassuring as you might think. Especially since I now felt
more
clueless about all the maneuverings at Lemaître, rather than
less.
However you sliced it, one murderer on the loose was one murderer too many. I was starting to wish I'd skipped this industry powwow altogether. But I couldn't leave now. Not before I had a lot more answers than I did so far.

“So, hey, Hayden.” Rex broke into my thoughts with a remarkably (for him) low-key voice. “About earlier . . .”

He had to mean the conversation I'd overheard. I didn't want to go into it. I felt embarrassed for him
and
for me.

I'd never eavesdropped in my life. What was wrong with me? The tragedy with Adrienne was making me do things I otherwise would never have done. Such as continue chatting with Rex.

“Forget it ever happened.” I raised my palm, hoping he wouldn't argue. “I will, too. It's been a long, weird day.”

“I meant earlier
yesterday.”
His tone turned icy. “When I gave you my portfolio. I'm going to need that back. ASAP.”

You guessed it. He actually pronounced “ASAP” like a word. He was back to smarmy again. “Need it back? Don't you have spares?”

“Not with me.” Around us, the landscape lighting suddenly switched on, illuminating his face more clearly. He seemed . . . kind of menacing, to be honest. “Anyway, that's not the point. I want it back because I won't be asking you to consult for Melt anymore.”

“You're withdrawing your request?” I was taken aback. Honestly, I was a little offended, too. What did it say about me if a lowlife like Rex didn't want me?

Hands on hips, he nodded. Sweatily and breathily.

Knowing Rex, he probably thought he was charming me.

“I've decided to go in another direction,” he said.

I remembered Isabel's idea that Rex and Bernard were working on bringing Rex to Lemaître Chocolates. For all I knew, they were plotting to overthrow Christian—which would explain why Bernard hadn't seemed more bitter about being forced out.

He knew he'd be getting the last laugh. Nodding at Rex, I said, “You don't want any proof around that you approached me.”

“That's about the size of it.” He jogged again. “So?”

“So I don't have your portfolio with me at the moment.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “We could go up to your room together. To retrieve it.
Together.”
More waggling. Gross.

“That won't be necessary.” I paused, unable to resist stirring the pot. He
had
provoked me. Bad idea. “If you'd prefer, I could deliver your portfolio directly to Christian.”

Rex narrowed his eyes. “Why would you do that?”

“Or Bernard?” I pressed, hoping to catch a telltale glimmer of guilt. Admittedly, I was living dangerously. I knew I ought to be wary of Rex, given what I knew about his possible homicidal tendencies toward Adrienne. But wariness was tricky to sustain when he was so cartoonishly over-the-top all the time. I couldn't help feeling that if Rex wanted to kill someone—and successfully pulled it off—he'd get caught. Because he'd feel compelled to brag about it afterward. “Would that be better?”

“I'm not following you,” Rex said, frowning more deeply.

His confusion seemed genuine. That confused
me.
A lot.

Had Isabel been wrong (or lying) about Bernard's possible meeting with Rex? Or was Rex a lot smarter than I thought? Was he smart enough to cover his tracks until the deal was done?

Sure, Rex had (allegedly) threatened Adrienne . . .
if
the rumors about him were to be believed. (I still wanted to check on them myself.) I didn't trust secondhand information. But one careless threat didn't mean Rex had purposely overdosed Adrienne. Did it?

Feeling hungry and reckless, I decided to go for broke. You would think it would be impossible to be
starving
at a resort that specialized in chocolate, but I was. I needed chow. Stat.

I was going to have to settle for answers, though.

“I just thought you might be planning to use your portfolio as a résumé.” I shrugged, watching Rex closely. “In case you wanted to go for Adrienne's old job at Lemaître Chocolates.”

“Why would I do that? I have my own company to run.”

If he was hiding a secret scheme, he was very good at it.

“Because Melt is in trouble,” I said. “Otherwise—”

“Who told you Melt is ‘in trouble'?”

His sharp tone rattled me. “You did. By trying to hire
me.
I'm a troubleshooter.” Everyone knew that. “I fix problems—”

“
And
innovate,” Rex interrupted, noticeably short on patience. “I came to you because I want to keep Melt on the cutting edge of chocolate, not because I need damage control.”

I didn't believe him. The evidence didn't add up. “Okay, well . . .” That still didn't explain why he'd declined my services. “How has that changed in the past twenty-four hours?”

“I don't have to explain myself to you.” Rex jerked up his chin, deliberately staring down at me. I'm not small by any stretch, but his stance made me feel petite. Plus, threatened.

Surrendering, I held up my palms. “You're right. You don't. It's none of my business. I'll return your portfolio. Consider it done.”
Right after I have a thorough look at it. “
Okay?”

Rex gave a grudging nod. Then: “You're sexy when you're feisty.”

Ugh.
Evidently,
nothing
dampened Rex's libido. If his hypothetical killer impulses were half as strong as his sex drive was, Rex would be the most go-get-'em murderer
ever.

On that thought, I decided to dash. The breeze from the Marin Headlands had turned brisk, ruffling the white blossoms on the nearby Callery pear trees and raising goose bumps on me. I'd left my cardigan in my room before heading to the spa, but now I regretted that decision. That was northern California weather for you—as changeable as the many moods of Rex Rader.

“Just rein it in, Rex. It's
never
happening between us.”

Before he could argue, I gave him a head shake and turned back to the path, headed toward Maison Lemaître's lobby. If Bernard intercepted me halfway there, I realized wryly, I'd be four-for-four in running into my theoretical suspects today.

I hoped that didn't happen.
Me
plus
low blood sugar
plus
too many murder theories
equaled
one seriously sour attitude.
If anyone came between me and the boost I intended to get from raiding the all-chocolate happy-hour spread that Lemaître put out every day in the lobby bar, things were liable to get ugly.

 

 

In the end, not surprisingly, Bernard
did
show up to waylay me. But he waited until I had a glass of ruby port and a plateful of chocolate-themed tapas in hand, so the situation wasn't as unpleasant as it could have been. Embarrassingly, though, I'd just shoved an entire diminutive sourdough crostini (topped with melted chocolate, a sprinkle of crunchy
fleur de sel,
and a fruity drizzle of Paso Robles olive oil) into my mouth. So the timing could have been better overall.