Criminal Confections (25 page)

And what about Poopsie? Well, I deduced, the Yorkie had obviously run away during all the turmoil. Until I'd found her.

I had to admit, that sounded pretty far-fetched. Things (technically) could have gone down that way . . . you know, on TV.

Or maybe, I mused, Bernard was more invested in Lemaître Chocolates' future than I knew. Maybe he
wasn't
senile. Maybe he
didn't
want Adrienne's “journal” for sentimental reasons. Maybe he wanted her notebook to keep her chocolate-making acumen for himself—or to find proof of her selling secrets to a competitor.

Maybe vengefulness grew wild on the Lemaître family tree.

With effort, I pulled myself out of that morass of secrets, lies, double crosses, and prime-time-worthy shenanigans.

“I'm sure you did all you could for Adrienne,” I told Bernard in a soothing voice. “After all, Christian isn't the only ‘brilliant and accomplished man' in the Lemaître family.”

“What?” Bernard snapped. “What do you mean by that?”

He didn't seem comforted by Christian's “power phrase.” But then, I hadn't expected him to be. I was angling again. Snooping around, I'd learned lately, was becoming kind of habit forming.

It wasn't so different from troubleshooting chocolates, actually. Both involved identifying problems, testing theories, and finding solutions. Except now I wasn't looking for the ideal chocolate-raspberry truffle or the ultimate malted milk shake.

I was looking for the not-so-perfect murderer.

Innocuously, I shrugged. “Only that you would have tried to save Adrienne if you could have.” I watched him carefully. “You were there at the welcome reception, weren't you?”

“When Adrienne died, I was with Rex.” Bernard looked haunted by that—far too haunted to be lying to me, I thought. “Trying to work out a partnership deal. I'll always regret that.”

Well. So much for his earlier alibi, when he'd claimed to have been with Isabel. I guessed now, with her gone, Bernard no longer felt any loyalty toward his wife—or any obligation to protect her . . . if that's what he'd initially been trying to do.

Interestingly, he'd just scuppered Christian's alibi, too.

“Partnership deal? Were Lemaître and Melt merging?”

“Rex needed money. I had money—money I had no impetus to invest in Lemaître anymore.” Bernard looked at his tasseled loafers. “I wanted to make Melt bigger than Lemaître. I wanted to make it succeed in a way that Christian never could.” He cast me a prideful glance. “There's more to chocolate than minding the bottom line. But my nephew will never understand that.”

“You were angry with him for pushing you out.”

“Angry?” Bernard startled me by chuckling. “Maybe at first. But ultimately? No. What I said at the awards banquet was true.”

I didn't think he remembered any of that gibberish. Wisely, I refrained from saying so. There were still those lamps nearby.

“I
am
grateful for Christian forcing me out,” Bernard went on, echoing his awards speech. “It made me rethink my legacy.”

He seemed so utterly enlivened by that idea, I couldn't help buying in. “What will your legacy be now?” I asked.

Bernard's irascible gaze swerved to mine. “Making sure that whoever hurt Adrienne pays for what they did.” He gave me a cockeyed smile. “And making more yummy chocolates, too!”

His mood swings were creeping me out—and giving me antsy feet, too. Because if Bernard had thought that Rex had hurt Adrienne (and subsequently killed him for it) or that Isabel had hurt Adrienne (and . . . ditto), then maybe his wild-eyed vendetta could touch just about anyone at Maison Lemaître.
Including me.

Or Christian, I had to admit. It wasn't
all
about me.

“Hey, I hear you there!” I said jovially, making a move toward the door. “Well, now that Poopsie's home safely and I've thoroughly raided your lunch, I guess I'd better be on my way.”

I turned away and walked. I was almost home free when...

“Not so fast,” Bernard said. His voice was low. Ominous.

I stopped, not looking at him. Instead, I gazed yearningly outside the window, where life went on as usual: threat free.

For one spine-tingling moment, I
believed
Bernard could have killed Adrienne. Rex. Isabel. Even
me.
What was I doing?

If a killer was threatening you, politeness wasn't called for. But social parameters were hardwired. I couldn't just
run.

I've heard that the impulse to be polite—even in the face of obvious danger—sometimes got people killed. Now I understood.

I still couldn't quite force my feet to move.

“You forgot your dessert!” Bernard followed me. He pushed a napkin-wrapped bundle into my numb hand. “It's cookies.
Not
chocolate this time.” He paused. “You want to know a secret?”

Not really.
I gulped. My common sense vanished. I nodded.

“Some days, I don't eat
any
chocolate,” Bernard confessed.

Then he gave me a chortle and herded me toward the door.

I practically sagged onto the floorboards on my way there, casting one lingering glance at my doggy buddy, Poopsie. Had I
truly
just gotten freaked out by a grandfatherly chocolatier?

Being around all this murder and mayhem was affecting me. Not in a positive, puppies-and-rainbows way, either.

“I don't, either,” I squeaked, opting to play along.

Ahead of me, Bernard considerately opened the cottage door. Outside I smelled chocolate and life, fresh air and
freedom.

He lingered. Maybe he was experiencing the same things?

Nope. Agreeably, he turned. “If you're the one who was selling us out,” he said, “I'll find out. And you'll be sorry. Because you're right—I
am
a ‘brilliant and accomplished man.'”

Then, as I gawked at him, Bernard shooed me out.

I didn't need to be told twice. I scrammed, his words still ringing in my ears as I sneakered my way down the cottage steps.

You'll be sorry. You'll be sorry.
You'll be sorry.

I already was sorry. Sorry I'd come there at all.

Maybe I
had
been the target all along. I'd known as much about Lemaître's chocolate-making methods as anyone. I could just as easily have sold that knowledge to the highest bidder.

Not that I would have, of course. I have integrity. I have—

“P'tain!” Bernard yelped in my wake.

—enough knowledge of
le français
to recognize a colloquial French slur when I heard one. Either the beloved patriarch of Lemaître Chocolates was calling me something
very
rude or . . . A streak of fast-moving furriness flashed by me.
Poopsie.

“
Putain!”
Bernard shouted more clearly, raising a ruckus as he hustled down the cottage steps right behind her.

He'd absentmindedly let out the dog while watching me leave. I knew I ought to catch Isabel's Yorkie, but hearing that expletive gave me a seriously sobering sense of déjà vu. Could
that
have been what I'd heard right before being clobbered?

Merde
would have been more common . . . and less vulgar. I was reminded that Lemaître
was
a French surname. Maybe
everyone
in the family spoke unrefined
français
? If so—and that
was
what I dimly remembered hearing before hitting the floor—that wouldn't narrow down my list of potential lamp-wielding attackers much.

Poopsie scampered around my feet, wagging her tail. She ignored Bernard in her wake.
Aw.
She wanted to come with me.

I would have, too. Her owner might be a lunatic.

All the same, I scooped up the dog, then petted her.

Bernard huffed up. Wild-haired, he held out his arms.

I considered my options. They were few. A head-scratch signal to Danny wouldn't save me this time.

Sensing my reluctance, Bernard gestured for his dog again.

“Maybe you should just quit while you're ahead, Hayden,” he urged pleasantly. “That might be better for everyone.”

As menacing as that suggestion sounded, I
know
I should have agreed. Of course I should have.

“It wouldn't be better for Adrienne,” I said, then I handed him his Yorkie and got out of there before things got hairy.

Chapter 14

I slammed into room 334 with my knees knocking, out of breath from the breakneck pace I'd used to escape Bernard.

Inside, things were peaceful and luxurious, freshly cleaned and faintly perfumed. The furniture gleamed. The myriad pillows on my king-size bed were plumped and perfect. The lamps and crystal chandelier (yes, I'm serious—this is a chichi resort, remember?) sparkled in the late-afternoon sunlight.

I exhaled. Maison Lemaître was
not
the kind of place where threats and conspiracies should have abounded. Maybe that's why I couldn't ditch the feeling I was overreacting to all this.

Adrienne had died. Probably accidentally. Caffeine
was
toxic in high doses; we'd both learned that while working on the nutraceutical line. Rex had died. Probably accidentally. Falls were a major cause of in-home deaths, weren't they? If an ordinary Joe wasn't safe in his own castle,
of course
we were all taking our chances by living, breathing, and scarfing down chocolate on a jagged Northern California promontory in springtime.

It was so obvious it was laughable. Right?

Still feeling jittery, I decided to call Travis. By now, he might have the information I wanted about Calvin Wheeler. If Nina's husband posed a threat to her, I wanted to know about it.

But the idea of learning that Calvin was an abuser (and not merely spa shy) made a crushing weight of despair temporarily squash my attempt to cheer myself up. Because if a woman wasn't safe from the man she'd married, who was safe? Anyone? Ever?

Pacing and shaking my head, I went to the window. Below me, I glimpsed the valets scurrying around. Surfer Guy hopped out of a Bentley, then handed over the keys. He pocketed a big tip.

I envied him his happy-go-lucky job. Nobody was trying to kill
him.
There wasn't a lot of duplicity in valet parking.

What I needed was a dose of normalcy, I told myself. A nice, sexy chat with Travis would haul me back from the brink. I got this way sometimes, I knew as I searched for my phone. Away from family and friends and familiarity, my mind ran wild.

My phone was nowhere to be found.
Another break-in?

Frantically, I hurried to the closet. My duffel bag looked undisturbed. So did my suitcase. I was about to open them when . . .

Danny burst through our rooms' connecting door, shirtless and barefoot. His dark hair was mussed, his expression dour.

“Looking for
this
?” He brandished my cell phone.

I didn't understand his bad attitude. “Yes, I am.”

I made a play for it. He held it out of reach. Having obviously heard me come into my room, he'd planned this showdown and clearly now didn't intend to be denied his satisfaction.

Or maybe he'd already been denied some satisfaction. I couldn't help noticing his jeans weren't buttoned correctly. He must have gotten dressed in a hurry. Wondering stupidly if Travis ever did the same thing (probably not—my financial advisor was
way
too methodical for that), I arched my brow at Danny. Knowingly.

“I guess things went well with the blond server?”

Danny didn't play along. “How were you planning to call me if you ran into trouble,” he demanded, “without this?”

Again, he waggled my phone. He was being unreasonable.

I crossed my arms. “I didn't see
you
chasing me down to give it to me. If you were that bugged by my forgetfulness—”

“I'm not bugged by your ‘forgetfulness,' you moron.” Danny's tone softened. “I'm worried about your safety. Before going to meet Isabel at the spa, you were supposed to come back here, change clothes, get your phone—” He broke off, gazing at my bare legs. Or my shorts. They were considerably worse for wear after my cuddle with Poopsie. My sometime bodyguard frowned.
Danny Jamieson, fashion critic. “
What happened to you?”

No, not Poopsie. Too late, I remembered the rosy-looking aftereffects of my chocolate-fondue body wrap/baked-potato roast adventure. To Danny, I probably looked parboiled. I shrugged.

“I'm pretty sure someone else tried to kill me,” I told him. “By tampering with the spa equipment. Can I have my phone?”

My supposed security man only gazed inscrutably at me. When we were both irked (and convinced we were in the right), things between us tended to go south quickly. But now, Danny seemed . . . fine with it all. He shrugged too, then crossed his arms. Sadly, his gesture spoiled my view of his muscular naked chest.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Nope.”

“Where were
you,
anyway?” I asked, feeling provoked. I considered inserting one of those handy French obscenities, then didn't. “
You're
the one who suggested I go to the spa alone.”

Maybe, I thought obstinately, Nina and Travis had a point about Danny. Maybe he
did
just want my money . . . not my safety.

As though reading my mind, Danny scowled more deeply.

“If you're going to quit on me again,” I said as the silence stretched uncomfortably between us, “just do it.”

“If you're not going to be honest with me,” he shot back with another obvious look at my scalded legs, “I might as well.”

“Wow. Remind me to never interrupt you mid nookie again.”

“I wasn't on a
date
with that server,” Danny informed me. “If you think I'd take off in the middle of helping you—”

I stared at his bare chest and incriminatingly (erotic) misbuttoned fly. His jeans rode so low, I wasn't sure how he managed to keep them on. “It sure looks like that's exactly what you did.”

He frowned at that, then threw my phone within reach onto the bed. It bounced on the comforter merrily, contradicting the peevishness between us. Maybe, I considered again, teaming up on a semiofficial basis was going to be hard on our friendship.

“Go ahead. Call Travis. Get your fix,” Danny said with a dismissive gesture. “Snooping obviously makes you cranky.”

“Ignoring my safety obviously makes
you
horny.”

“I can't work in a vacuum. Next time, take your phone.”

With that edict, Danny stomped away. The connecting door slammed behind him, sealing me alone with my irritable thoughts.

I wished I'd never glimpsed my ultra-buff bodyguard's fine, tight butt as he stormed away from me, though. I didn't have time to deal with being threatened, being confused, being scared and concussed and almost baked to death,
and
being interested (however briefly and stirringly) in the way Danny's jeans fit.

Opting for moderation over burliness, I picked up my phone.

I dialed. When my call connected and Travis's deep, self-assured voice came over the line, I
did
feel a rush. I can't deny it. “Hey, hot stuff,” I told him. “Do you ever wear jeans?”

 

 

As you might have expected, chatting with Travis calmed me right down. You know, if you could call feeling vaguely hot and bothered by an unseen man's bedroom voice
calmed down.
Maybe you can't. Because I
did
feel sort of breathless afterward. Let's just compromise and say that as I disconnected our call, then checked my phone's email for the attachment Travis had promised to send me (not there yet; was Travis slipping?), I was seeing things with new eyes . . . including my next-door-neighbor.

The sound of the TV blaring through the wall from next door told me Danny was still there. It also told me he was upset.

My buff pal only ever zoned out to an
Antiques Roadshow
marathon when he was really,
really
wired about something.

Feeling similarly distraught, I put down my phone. Instead of checking and double-checking for Travis's tardy email about Calvin Wheeler, I paced across my room's sophisticated beige carpet. The whole color scheme was designed to be soothing, restful, and reminiscent of Lemaître's fine chocolates, I knew . . . but I still felt restless. It was obvious that being suspicious of Danny (even against my will) was making me crabby.

I was used to believing, without question, that Danny had my back—that he would always stand by me. Thinking otherwise was completely unsettling. Danny had known me for a long time—since before my inheritance. We'd met during my (just as footloose) backpacking-with-ramen days. We'd bonded immediately.

Funnily enough, I recalled, when the two us met, we were—

Nope. No nostalgia.
How it all began didn't matter now. Not if we couldn't get past our current deadlock. I knew Danny wouldn't budge—not before a few more episodes of heirloom teapots and vintage whatnots aired, at least. It was up to me to make the first move. Sure, the odds against Danny were two to one. Casting suspicion on him was currently more popular than joining his bad-boy fan club. But Danny had always been misunderstood.

Most of the time, though,
not
by me.

Needing to make a decision, I quit fidgeting. I looked at the connecting door between our adjoining rooms. What I needed now was a leap of faith—and enough confidence in my own judgment to take it. Because the thing about trusting someone is . . .

. . . sometimes you just have to
do
it.
That's
the “trust” part.

Twenty minutes later, I'd changed into a black tank and my most destroyed (aka perfect) pair of jeans, blown out my hair, and slapped on some lip gloss. Carrying my clutch, I strode to Danny's door. I took a deep breath. If the door was locked . . .

It wasn't. Of course. That's how I knew my leap of faith was going to pay off. I breezed into the adjoining room.

“We're getting out of here.” I picked up Danny's jacket and tossed it toward his lounging (now T-shirted) form on the bed. Without a word, he caught it, almost upsetting the laptop balanced on his thighs. “Put that on,” I said, “and let's go.”

His scowl deepened. “Do I get to dress
you,
too?”

“Nope. I'm not up for a bikini top and cutoffs tonight.”

He grinned. We both knew I understood his kinks. The closer a woman looked to having just sexily soaped up a muscle car in a music video, the more Danny liked her. He was a simple guy.

Weren't most men, really?

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“That's for me to know and you to find out.”

“Real mature.” He turned off the TV but didn't budge.

I was getting closer. I took myself over to the bed. I looked down at him. I measured my options. Time was wasting.

I grabbed his jacket. “Fine.
I'll
wear it.”

I slung it on. Danny's eyes gleamed. His
other
kink was any woman wearing a man's gear—oversize button-up shirt, suit coat, you name it. Preferably (he'd confided once) in her underwear.

I was partway there. I was playing with fire, sure. But making up with him meant more to me than anything else.

Besides, I'm not averse to a little risk now and then.

“You can go like that.” I nodded at his T-shirt and low-riding jeans. “A big, burly guy like you won't feel the cold.”

He grinned. That's right. Flattery got me everywhere.

My ability to make friends isn't confined to strangers.

“If I do,” Danny told me as he levered off the mattress, then stood, “I know how to find somebody to warm up with.”

As a peace offering, I let his macho boast go unremarked upon. Danny was capable of making friends easily himself. It was just that he didn't bother most of the time.

“Tonight you're mine,” I said, then led us out the door.

 

 

The dive bar Danny and I wound up in was (predictably) dark, gritty, and crowded. It smelled of spilled beer, stale tobacco, and pool cue chalk—all underlaid with a faint whiff of BO—just to let you know you were in the Tenderloin now, and not in Union Square with all the tourists and financiers. There was music, but it was live, sporadic, and relatively sullen. There were drinks, but they were beer, cheap beer, and cheaper beer.

Also, whiskey. Jim Beam, to be exact. A shot of that amber stuff whirled between Danny's restive fingertips as we sat at a corner table and got down to setting things straight between us.

“Her,” I said, flicking my gaze subtly to a bodacious redhead standing at the bar. “Long weekend.
Easter
weekend.”

Dubiously, Danny raised his eyebrow. “Why Easter?”

“She looks Catholic. You like corrupting people. It's a match made in heaven—especially on an official church holy day.”

He laughed, then studied the crowded bar. When he'd made his decision, he aimed his chin at a business-suited man at the door. “Captain Spreadsheet. Two years. Starting tonight.”

“
‘Two years'?”
I guffawed. “No way. Drink up, pal.”

Danny refused with a head shake. “I'm right. You know I am. You're jonesing for the whole picket-fence routine lately.”

He was almost right. Did a dog count? Nah. I shook my head.

“That'll be the day.” I pounded the table. “Drink. Drink!”

Relenting, Danny knocked back his whiskey. He pulled over another shot from the row he'd assembled for our reconciliation.

If you're wondering whether we were going to talk things over . . . you've obviously never met Danny. Or me. There's a time for getting sentimental, sure. But between us, it
wasn't
when pride and hurt feelings were involved. This game we played? It was it.