Criminal Confections (14 page)

“That fix was supposed to be me, I thought.” I told Danny about my run-in with Rex, then gave him a roundup of the day's events. Bernard, Christian, Isabel, Rex, Bernard
again . . .
all of it. I needed to get it all out with someone I trusted. “I had no idea there were so many things going on behind the scenes here.”

“Every place has its conspiracies.” Danny didn't seem daunted. In contrast, everything sounded twice as unbelievable to me. “Usually, money is at the root of everything.”

“I have to involve Travis, then! He'll know what to—”

Do,
I meant to say, but Danny cut me off before I could.

“You can't.” His voice was rough. Suddenly, he looked
really
intense. “If you do that, you know what he'll do.”

“Find out more details for me?
Legally?
Ooh, scary.”

“He'll pressure you to settle down. To be safe”—Danny made scornful air quotes around the word—“
his
way. You'd hate that.”

I didn't say so, but a teeny-tiny part of me—the part that yearned for an Irish setter and a place to keep doggie chew toys for more than a month at a time—actually kinda
liked
the idea of settling down. But that was impossible. So it didn't merit thinking about. Wanting distraction, I shrugged. I grabbed the Maison Lemaître body lotion from nearby, propped my foot on the upholstered divan, and smoothed some on.
Hmm.
I still needed to pitch Christian about refining the formula. The whole “orange Kool-Aid meets Yoo-hoo” vibe was a turnoff in toiletries.

I caught Danny watching me and stopped short. Too late, I realized I'd hiked up my shirtdress to a nearly indecent degree. I'd known Danny so long that sometimes I forgot he wasn't one of my girlfriends getting ready for a ladies' night out with me.

“At least no one wants to off me so far.” I laughed, then rubbed the remaining lotion onto my hands. “No enemies here.”

Danny appeared skeptical. “Are you sure? Think harder.”

“Hey! Are you insinuating that I'm an airhead?”

“No. But
you
don't specialize in eradicating risk.
I
do. The first step is always reconnaissance, so let's go deeper.”

He wouldn't be satisfied until I cooperated. So I did.

“Okay. Well, I
do
sometimes meet a few unsavory characters during my consulting gigs,” I admitted. “Occasionally, I'm offered a bribe to wreck a competitor's product line. Sometimes I refuse to work with someone, and they get touchy about it.”

“‘Touchy'?” Danny gave a formidable frown. “
Touchy,
how?”

I shrugged. “Raised voices, maybe. That's all. I keep a low profile, remember? I'm good at smoothing things over before they get out of hand. Believe me, I'm aware of the fact that by helping some companies, I might inadvertently hurt others. It's business. It's occasionally pretty cutthroat.” My gaze dropped to Adrienne's notebook. I wondered who she'd been selling secrets to. “It's not just cocoa beans and conching machines. There's creativity involved in chocolate making, too. It won't be easy to replace someone like Adrienne. She was talented.”

“Then her notebook is valuable?” Danny inferred.

I nodded. “To the right people, it is. You'd have to know how to use it.” I thought about the notes and formulas inside, some of which had been revelatory even to me. “But if you did, you'd be willing to do a lot to get ahold of it, for sure. It would be the next best thing to having Adrienne on payroll.”

I still didn't know how I was going to delay giving it to Christian. As Adrienne's employer, he had a legitimate claim on her work. But going against her wishes rubbed me the wrong way.

“Then I could sell that thing”—Danny nodded dubiously at Adrienne's chocolate-smudged notebook—“for big bucks?”

“Theoretically, sure. But that doesn't explain where
I
come in.” Except that Adrienne had given it to me. “Or why someone would want to kill her. Except maybe to avoid paying Adrienne her asking price for it?” I sighed. “Maybe I'm blowing all this out of proportion,” I told Danny. “Maybe it's nothing.”

“Do you feel like it's nothing?”

Reluctantly, I shook my head.

“Then it's probably not nothing.”

I sighed. “Let's just go to the party and forget about it.”

But Danny was having none of that. Not yet.

“Soon,” he promised. “But first . . . let's go over this again.”

He'd always been slightly more disciplined than I was. In this case, that was probably a good thing. For my own well-being.

Together, we ran through what we knew so far. We knew that Adrienne had had a fling with Bernard. That she'd (reportedly) been selling secrets. That Christian had wanted to make her pay for her sabotage and/or had accidentally “hurried” her chocolate making too aggressively. That Bernard was either doddering or evil or (maybe) both at once. That Isabel was either maniacally possessive or totally carefree, my ideal travel buddy or my pushiest (literally) spa-going nightmare. We knew that Rex Rader had a lot to gain from Adrienne's death . . . and that he'd lied about Melt being prosperous. (I trusted Danny's source more than Rex.)

Just then, my money was on Rex being the most murderous.

“I'm not sure this helps,” I admitted after our impromptu analysis was finished, “but I do feel better sharing with you.”

“Yeah. I knew you would.” Danny gave me a look that recalled all our barhopping days, our nights discovering indie bands, our longtime friendship, and our sometimes precarious efforts to keep that friendship (mostly) platonic. We were only human. For a while, we'd been too clueless to take reasonable precautions. “You'll feel even better after you hire my security services,” he said next. “I'm not budging till you do.”

I laughed. “Come on, Danny. I'm fine. Really!”

“You're wealthy enough that my salary won't make a dent.”

Uncomfortably, I realized that was true. It would have been churlish of me to argue with him—and stupid of me to refuse. People paid big bucks for Danny's freelance security expertise. He'd dropped everything to attend the chocolate retreat with me. I owed him. We were both cognizant of the background details.

I nodded. Once. That's it. And that's how Danny Jamieson became my official (off-the-record) bodyguard. For the moment.

With that decision, I ran out of reasons not to look into Adrienne's untimely death. For better or worse, I realized as we finally headed downstairs to the cocktail party, I was committed to investigating further. But at least Danny would have my back while I did—just in case
I
was the one who'd been meant to die.

Chapter 8

When I tell you I was blindfolded, you're going to think I was up to something perverted. When I add that I was being watched by hundreds of people while blindfolded, you're going to think I was doing something
really
deviant. When I specify that
all
my senses were intimately involved in that activity . . . well, let's just end the analogy right there. This wasn't
Fifty Shades of Grey
territory, and I wasn't doing anything remotely shady.

Instead, I was appearing as an expert panelist on Lemaître Chocolates' “Name That Chocolate!” It was a game-show-inspired session that had been planned by Nina, cunningly designed to highlight all the most self-aggrandizing chocolatiers present.

Oh, and
me,
too. I was appearing among them.

I'm not much for self-promotion. I can't be. The name of my game is discretion. I can't very well shout from the rooftops about the famous chocolate companies, restaurants, and fine-food purveyors that have had their big-time goofs corrected by me. That would be a recipe for nonreferrals. Mostly, I do my job and then keep my mouth shut, trusting word to get out when it needs to.

It works, too. That's why you won't see me taking out ads in trade press outlets or (God forbid) Tweeting about my know-how to any schmo who'll listen. I don't have to. One way or another, people who need my help find a way to throw out a Bat-Signal, then I come and magically make everything better.

Today, though, Nina had begged me to join the panel. Armed with both her phones, a headset, and
two
fresh clipboards, she'd cornered me after a tasty breakfast of cocoa-hazelnut granola and a gallon of coffee (these early mornings were killers, no pun intended) and applied her best PR mojo to the task. Not that any persuasive machinations were necessary. I'd taken one look at Nina's noticeable new (and unfortunate) stress-related eye twitch and agreed to get my taste test on for the public.

The whole endeavor had two parts. First, a chocolate tasting featuring multiple rounds, with one panelist being eliminated after each round. Second, a wagering component that enabled retreat attendees to “sponsor” the panelist of their choice. The whole endeavor was meant to funnel donations toward Bernard Lemaître's culinary arts charity—which I still refused to believe was a tax dodge. There were several disadvantaged high-school students in attendance at Maison Lemaître to enjoy the spectacle. I'd spoken with a few of them beforehand. They'd impressed me with their diligence, curiosity, and enthusiasm.

I wished I could say the same thing for my fellow panelists. Six rounds in—
sans
blindfold now—I was feeling the pressure. Not because anyone intimidated me—just because no one else seemed to be taking the job at hand very seriously (so far). Didn't they realize there were donations at stake?
Kids' futures?

With my footloose ways, I'd probably never have any kids of my own. So I did my best to buckle down on behalf of everyone.

The accoutrements of each round were a nameplate (mine read H
AYDEN
M
ANDY
M
ORE,
a classic but typical gaffe), a glass of room-temperature sparkling springwater (it couldn't be cold, or it would obliterate the temperature-sensitive qualities of the cacao), and a stack of bland, palate-cleansing water crackers.

You might think that tasting chocolate is a dream job. You wouldn't be far off. When I'm focused on a nice French
mendiant
studded with dried figs and almonds or a plain
tablette
of 73 percent dark bittersweet, my monkey mind finally shuts up. Everything falls away. All that exists is me and the
Theobroma cacao.

Tasting chocolate—even publicly—is the closest I ever come to achieving nirvana . . . at least outside of the bedroom, that is. It's the only time I'm not thinking about
anything
else.

I was looking forward to shutting out the crowd and getting in the groove as the next volunteer charity student made his way down the panelists' table, carefully distributing silver-domed trays of chocolate samples—each of which had been donated by a different company or artisan. I transferred my attention from the thronged ballroom to the shiny challenge in front of me.

Already, we'd been through simple
carrés
—bite-size squares—of varietal chocolates, which presented minimal challenge to a knowledgeable taster. Now we'd progressed to truffles. They were more complex and subsequently harder to evaluate. A hush fell over the retreat attendees as we prepared to do exactly that.

Nearby, Rex's (least favorite) reporter did a roadie walk toward the stage. Partially hunched, she snapped a flash photo.

Apparently, our antics were being documented for
Chocolat Monthly.
I hoped my hair looked good. At least I wasn't wearing chef's whites and a pair of kitchen clogs. My navy wrap dress was crushable, packable, hand-washable,
and
reasonably chic.

“All right, panelists! Get ready!” Nina strode the length of the panel, acting as volunteer emcee. Her clip-on mic made her voice boom through the ballroom. “Time for another round!”

I'd be lying if I said anticipation didn't buzz through the place. Everyone on the panel was a professional. Screwing up would make any of us look bad. I wanted to ace this.

I glanced sideways. Remaining on the panel with me were Rex Rader, a rep from Torrance Chocolates, someone from a cocoa bean supply company, and Christian. (That's right—just as with the scavenger hunt, he'd joined his own challenge.) The five of us were instructed to lift the silver domes of our samples.

As I did, the lush scent of chocolate struck me. Hard. I knew better than to be seduced right away. There was a protocol here, starting with evaluating the chocolate's appearance. It needed to exhibit a shiny gloss, which indicated good tempering. It needed to display a nice color—although contrary to popular belief, darker chocolate isn't necessarily better; some very good cacao beans are quite pale. If it was a bar (or slender French
bâton
) of chocolate, it needed to demonstrate a clean snap when broken in half, with no discernible bending or crumbling. That meant the sample had a proper cacao content.

After I'd evaluated the appearance and snap,
then
it was finally time to contemplate the aroma. It's always seductive, but it's never simple. Not for me. Whether in a varietal or a cuvée, it should be possible to pick up notes ranging from floral to fruity, smoky to spicy, malty to earthy to herbaceous.

Just like wine, each chocolate carries a unique fingerprint. Fortunately for me, I'd learned to ID several.

Today I was under the microscope. That meant I wanted to really excel. So while my fellow panelists bit right into their samples, trying to beat the game clock, I picked up my knife and carefully bisected the truffle I'd been given. I studied it. With bars, it's possible to evaluate the chocolate's grain—the pattern of crystallization that develops among the components of cocoa butter, cocoa liquor, and (sometimes) sugar. With truffles, though, the chocolate coating isn't thick enough for such intricacies. All I wanted to do was release more aroma.

Inhaling it (but not necessarily expecting to taste its constituents in the finished truffle), I cut off a diminutive bite. I let it melt on my tongue, checking that it liquefied appropriately. Some of the chocolates we'd tried had tasted flat—probably due to an omission of vanilla, misguidedly intended to enhance the chocolate's bitter notes—but this one didn't. It melted like a dream, tasting of berries and spice.

In that melting bite, I experienced the stars of the show: mouthfeel and taste. Playing it safe, I chewed my next bite. The flavor was complex, the aftertaste clean, the finish long.

You may have had chocolate that's waxy, gritty, or grainy. That means it's cheap, old, or both. This truffle was neither.

I punched my buzzer. (Yes, we each had one; however cheesy, it was all for the sake of charity.) “Cacao from Colombia. The Chucureno region. Light roast.” That made it trickier. “With a filling of lime-infused ganache lightened with
cajeta.”

Nina's eyes lit up. “Right again, Hayden!”

The other panelists groaned. Have I mentioned that this was a timed session? Whoever got the right answer first won the round—and kept the attendees who'd sponsored them paying up.

I was safe again. The same couldn't be said for Rex, though, who—according to the rules—was eliminated. He had the fewest sponsors paying for him,
and
he hadn't identified the chocolate sample in time. He tossed me a hostile look, then took a seat in the audience. I felt his animosity radiating toward me.

With only four of us remaining, the audience's interest was increasing. Another of the volunteer students circulated among them with labeled and branded promotional samples of curry and basil truffles from a New York confectioner, each enrobed with a hand-ground mortar-and-pestle bittersweet couverture. I saw Danny shake his head to (unbelievably) pass on one. Cretin.

Catching me watching, he made a face. I noticed he was seated next to the
Chocolat Monthly
reporter. She'd angled her whole body toward Danny with interest. If he wanted, he could really clean up at the retreat. First Nina, now . . . I really needed to learn the name of Rex's nemesis. Maybe after the panel.

First, there was another sample to taste. Nina amped up the attendees' enthusiasm with an anecdote about Point Reyes—a scenic area nearby—encouraging them to visit after the retreat was finished. (I wondered if the California tourism board had sponsored her emceeing gig.) While we panelists chewed unsalted crackers and sipped sparkling water to prepare, more silver-domed trays emerged from the ballroom kitchen. My mouth watered.

I lifted my tray's dome. Greeting me, atop a paper doily, was another chocolate truffle. Its surface was milky brown, dusted with vibrant, almost neon green particles. Its interior, when I cut into it, looked like vanilla cream. I knew it wasn't.

At an event like this one, nobody was trotting out a sample that could have been crafted at an old-timey seaside candy shop.

While I was still tasting, the supplier smacked her buzzer.

“I'm detecting . . . tangerine!” she said, nearly on her feet with zeal. “Hints of cedar . . . raw sugar . . . it's Ecuadorian cacao!”

Nina shook her head. Automatically, so did I.

“Venezuelan,” I identified, “from the Sur del Lago region. Another light roast.” I gave her a sympathetic look. “The matcha dusting and Camembert filling are probably throwing you off.”

I felt rushed making the assessment, but the retreat attendees were impressed, anyway. An approving murmur swept the ballroom. I don't often receive public recognition for my work, so I appreciated the approval—until the cocoa bean supplier shot me a disgruntled glance and left the stage. If looks could kill, I'd have been to the pearly gates and back again twice today.

I hadn't come here to make enemies. Couldn't they all just lighten up? I was only serving on the panel as a favor to Nina; I hadn't even had time to collect more than a few token sponsorships beforehand (including one from Danny). Plus, I couldn't help being good at my job. I have a talent for cacao, sure. But it's not as if I can do something
really
crucial, like perform successful brain surgery or pilot a Boeing 747-400.

You've probably guessed by this point that chocolate-industry types can be somewhat tantrum prone. That person in your office who just can't let go of the fact that someone else ate the last “everything” bagel or didn't chip in for the coffee fund? That person would have been celebrated for their “vision” and “attention to detail” in my biz. Creative pursuits tend to reward idiosyncrasies and encourage prima donna behavior. In the world of chocolate, “difficult” is a synonym for “talented.”

A subsequent (and straightforward) round of chocolates paired with liquor knocked out the rep from Torrance Chocolates. Felled by the palate-confusing (but orgasmic) combo of single-malt finish rum plus litchi truffle—which we three dutifully sipped, bit, sipped, and chewed—she left the panel, too.

At least she didn't shoot me daggers on her way. She gave me a bubbly thumbs-up before taking her place in the audience.

It was down to me . . . and Christian Lemaître. Seated
way
down the panelist's table from me, he frowned and cracked his neck like a boxer in the ring.
Oh, brother.
Wanting this over with, I watched the next volunteer student distribute silver-domed samples to us both. No one in the room needed either of the stimulants—theobromine and caffeine—that were naturally present in cacao beans to perk up for the final round. It was
on.

Refraining from delivering a few
Rocky
air punches, I found Danny in the crowd. I grinned at him. He gave me a somber nod. That grounded me. With a start, I remembered everything that had been going on. Danny probably thought I'd be sniper shot if I won the tasting. He might not be far wrong, either.

But I wanted to win anyway. I
know
I've told you how competitive I am. Plus, once my chocolate sample was unveiled, I forgot anything else existed. All there was, for me, was cacao.

I took my time, examining the sample's appearance, aroma, snap, and mouthfeel. I'd just started on its taste when Christian yelped beside me. He slammed his hand on his buzzer.

“Trinitario beans!” he shouted. “Likely sourced from Venezuela, with Tahitian vanilla and crushed cacao nib filling.”